


This Time for Sure

by Deejaymil



Series: Halcyon Mine [1]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Best Friends, Childhood Friends, Eventual Sex, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Growing Up, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Slow Burn, Time Skips, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-08-29 10:10:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 52
Words: 131,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8485333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deejaymil/pseuds/Deejaymil
Summary: At ten years old, Aaron Hotchner was quite sure he'd done all the growing up he'd ever need to. That was the summer he met a boy in the quarry who seemed entirely determined to do nothing of the sort. "We're not friends," was the first thing Spencer Reid ever said to him.
As it turned out, that was wrong.
Nine years later, Aaron was well on his way to finally proving that growing up was optional. On that particular night, he was several things: drunk, stupid, and completely unconcerned about the idiot about to get his arse kicked for counting cards. Not my problem, thought Aaron, and turned back to his friends.
As it turned out, that was wrong too.





	1. Halcyon - June, 1992

**Author's Note:**

> So, I essentially flipped Hotch and Sean's birth order for this fic just so I can have tiny Spence and Aaron being buddies. Welcome to baby brother Aaron Hotchner AU! Actually, this whole thing is wildly AU, so... have fun!
> 
>  

“We’re not friends,” said the boy stubbornly, wiping blood from his chin with one grubby sleeve. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

Aaron shrugged, examining his knuckles. They were split and swollen, oozing grossly. The other guys looked worse. “I don’t like people who use their size to pick on people smaller than them,” he said, taking a cautious step forward. The boy backed away, battered sneakers nudging the loose chain-link fence that hung grimly onto the edge of the quarry to stop people from drunkenly tumbling over. In theory. In practise, it just became a dare to walk out onto the—in some places—almost horizontal surface to see how far you’d go.

Aaron always got the furthest. “You’re mental,” Tony always said, as he watched Aaron bounce on the edge without even glancing down to the sheer drop. “Absolutely mental.”

Not really. He faced worse at home.

“You don’t have to be scared of me,” Aaron said, holding his hands out in a _I’m not gonna hurt_ you fashion. He’d seen his mom use it before, to no effect. Sean too, before he’d left one day and never come back. Not that Aaron cared. “I’m not like them. I’m not gonna hurt you, kid.”

Hazel eyes narrowed behind thick coke-bottle glasses that had, somehow, escaped being damaged in the scuffle between the boy and the bullies. Dirt smeared his face from where they’d shoved him down, a cut on his chin marking where he’d hit a rock on the way. His shirt was a deep navy that hid the grime, hanging from his frame like there was nothing but bones underneath, a proud, gold SEP logo emblazoned across the front. The backpack dangling from the edge of the fence, the strap the only thing stopping it from a swift plunge, was similarly coloured.

“That’s what they said too,” he said finally, voice soft, looking down to hide his eyes behind curls of wild brown hair. “Next thing, they’re trying to throw me out… _there_.” He shuddered, jutting his chin to the drop.

Aaron glanced at the drop again, then back at the boy. _We’re not friends,_ hummed the boy’s voice in his brain, gnawing at him. Not so different, really. Aaron didn’t trust anyone but his friends either. “What if I get it for you?” he asked, and bounded forward without waiting for a reply, ignoring the startled cry as the boy lunged at his arm. One step, two, and he was balancing easily across a metal support pole that clattered and bounced as he balanced along it. He slowed, not wanting to jar the bag off, not looking down. “Will you trust me now?” he called cockily over his shoulder.

“The median height of a fatal fall is forty-nine feet,” the boy called after him, voice choked. “One-hundred percent fatality is incurred after eighty-five feet. Come back! It’s not worth it, I trust you, okay?”

Aaron looked down. “I’d say this is about sixty feet, yeah?” he guessed wildly, glancing back and smiling. The bag was just within reach. He just had to… _get it_. “See?” He turned, holding the bag up. “No prob—whoa!” The fence rocked with the wind, tipping him forward and rolling him down the incline to sprawl ungracefully on the ground at the new boy’s feet. “No problem,” he finished, wincing and pushing the bag towards those feet. “Here. Trust me now?”

Standing this close, he was at least two heads higher than this kid, looking down on him. The boy looked away, shy. “Guess so,” he said, clutching the bag closer. _Spencer Reid_ said the backpack, in clumsy felt tip marker. “That was both… really brave and really dumb.”

“I’m Aaron,” Aaron introduced himself, because they were standing here awkwardly like weirdos and he kind of wanted some thank you for saving the kid’s life, _twice_. Another peek around the sparsely wooded clearing showed an interesting jumble of materials propped up in a pile next to a hastily discarded book. “Hey, is that yours? What are you doing?” Silence. Spencer’s face was the picture of mistrust. “Is it a fort?” Aaron tried again, eyeing the planks of wood. “You making a fort up here?”

More silence.

“Hey,” Aaron said, shoving his hands in his pocket. “Look, I’m not… this is kind of my spot, okay? Sort of. I come here too…” Hide? Sulk? Exist? “… think. I don’t care if you’re here too, but right here isn’t a great place to build. Those guys? They’ll come back. They smoke over there.” He jabbed his thumb in the direction of the fence, where the wind blew beer cans and smoke butts and litter to push the fence down. “I can show you a better place, more hidden.” Kid didn’t look like the noisy type. And maybe it would be cool to see him do… whatever he was doing.

“Why would you give up your place for me?” Spencer asked. He shoved his glasses up his nose, leaving a streak of grunge. “You don’t know me. We’re not _friends_.” There was a miserable kind of tone to his voice on the last word. “I don’t even live here… I’m just here for the summer.”

Even better. SEP were the nerd kids who came in from out of state to ‘relax’ during the summer. He’d probably make an awesome-smart fort thing, and then go back to wherever he came from and Aaron could take it over. Look after it for him, whatever. Win, win.

“We could be,” Aaron offered, instead of saying any of that, despite it probably being a lie. Aaron couldn’t imagine what the two of them would have in common. “Or not, whatever you want. I’ll just do my own thing.” He glanced back at the wood, most of which looked about the size of the shrimp standing in front of him. “And I’ll help you carry it down.” Aaron wiped his face again, feeling sticky, flies buzzing overhead. The silence lingered.

“Okay,” Spencer finally said, nodding hard enough that his glasses slid down his nose. “But… that’s it. We don’t… talk or anything, once we’re there.” He shrugged, helplessly, twitching back when Aaron stepped closer. Nervous. Aaron understood that. He didn’t like it when people got close either. “We’re not _friends_ or anything, just because you’re helping me with manual labour. And because you beat up a couple of adolescents for me.” He looked at the fence. “And because you risked your life on _that_ for my bag.”

Aaron smiled, enjoying the awed tone creeping in. “So you keep saying,” he said, shrugging, and turned to collect the wood. “You gonna finally tell me what you’re making?”

“Rhosgobel,” Spencer said simply, and refused to elaborate further. Aaron was beginning to get the feeling his summer had just gotten a lot weirder.


	2. Halcyon - July, 1992

Two weeks into July had passed without them speaking a word to each other, and Aaron was pretty sure that was just how Spencer wanted it. With Aaron curled into his favoured spot between the crook of two branches on the sprawling maple tree, and Spencer over the other side of the narrow alcove busily working on his ‘Rhosgobel’, which a cursory exploration in the library encyclopaedias had shed _no_ light on.  Today, it was hot, sticky, and the book Aaron had brought along with him was completely failing to be even a tiny bit interesting. The kid quietly knotting branches together with precise twists of his fingers into a rough scaffold shape… that was _much_ more interesting… Aaron realized he’d been staring, stomach twisting oddly. It did look far more fun than curled up reading. Especially now it actually looked like something, and not just a weird box-shape of wood leaning against the inclined fencing.

Spencer flopped to the ground with a huff, clearly irritated. The branch he was trying to tie, a young, green branch that whipped back out of place as soon as he released it, rolled away. Aaron examined it. “Need a hand?” he asked, voice cracking. It sounded odd, to talk in this place. He’d never talked here when he was alone, for obvious reasons, and he hadn’t talked since it had become a shared space because well… they weren’t _friends_. No matter what Aaron had wistfully allowed himself to hope now that Tony was acting weird about hanging out and Elliot had moved away.

Spencer jumped, turning to him with a wary look. There was a thin slice of blood across the meat of his thumb, where the branch had lashed him. “No,” he said. Stopped. Glanced at the branch. “Well… maybe. I know what I _want_ it to do, it’s just…”

Aaron was quiet. He knew this frustration. “It’s okay to ask for help if you’re not strong enough,” he said finally, sliding out of the tree with a _thump_ , watching as Spencer picked the branch up again and ran his hands over it thoughtfully. _Stop crying, don’t be weak_ , whispered a harsh voice in his mind, and he shoved it away roughly. It wasn’t his voice. It would _never_ be his voice. “I don’t mind. It actually looks like tons of fun and my book is… not.”

Spencer glanced at the book. “It picks up more towards the end,” he said with a half-smile, tilting his chin back towards his fort. “I’m having trouble with the structural integrity of the back wall. It’s taking the weight of the sloped roof I need to stop from water or snow collecting, and I can’t use the surroundings to remove tension like I can with the front supports.”

Aaron examined it. “What if you don’t have a back wall?” he suggested, inching closer, keeping an eye on Spencer’s reaction to make sure the kid wasn’t intimidated by how close he was getting. He didn’t seem to be. A bit wide-eyed and confused by Aaron’s idea, but not frightened.

“We’d have pile of broken branches, probably with me inside it,” Spencer replied, “That doesn’t sound fun.” It was almost a teasing tone, and he flushed red at it.

“Or, we could shift it back a bit and have the fence as the back wall?” Aaron moved forward, illustrating what he meant with his hands, forgetting his caution. “See, and just have it incline like this, and then you can do this—” He sprawled onto the fence, grinning up at the other boy. “Comfy. In built hammock-thing. Come on, try it!” It was a thoughtless gesture, like something he’d do with Tony or Elliot, not this kid he didn’t even know. He reached up and grabbed Spencer’s shirt, tugging him forward onto the fence with an _oomf_ , sneakers scuffing the dirt.

Spencer twitched, eyed him, and… flopped down on his belly with a soft _hmm_ , pressing his nose to the chain-link and staring down without fear to the drop below. “This could work,” he mumbled into the fence. “This could work _brilliantly._ ”

“You’re welcome.” Aaron craned his neck back, squinting at the painfully bright sky through the thin leaves ahead. “That’s what I do. Lead Rhosgobel to brilliance.”

“Rhosgobel is a place,” Spencer said finally, lifting his head. Aaron snorted at the chain-link impression on his forehead, earning a scowl. “Lord of the Rings. Well, sort of… it’s only mentioned a little. The forest where Rada—I’m being boring, I’m sorry, I’ll… not.”

It was a weird flip. He’d gone from rambling and excited to bright red and miserable looking. Aaron knew that feeling. It was the same one he had whenever he’d overstepped at home, gotten too excited about something that didn’t fit into what his dad thought he should be interested in, and Sean never helped… “Lord of the Rings, huh?” he asked, standing with difficulty, Spencer bouncing and sliding down the fence as it protested the weight shift. “Big book for a kid. That’s cool.”

His answer was a cocked eyebrow. “Why do you call me that?” Spencer said, standing as well and brushing his pants down. “‘Kid’. I’m the same age as you. Within a year, anyway.”

Aaron blinked. “But you’re—” Short? Scrawny? Tiny? Barely up to Aaron’s chin? All of the above? “—really?”

“Ten in October,” Spencer replied quietly. “We’re both just kids.” Aaron wasn’t so sure about that. Sean had said it, as he’d left. _You gotta grow up and stop expecting people to help you out just because you’re a kid._ But then he’d run away, and Aaron knew that that was more childish than anything he’d ever done. Running away was _wrong_.

“I’m not a kid,” he said instead and, to cover the awkward bubble of emotions in his stomach he worried was showing on his face, he slugged the other boy’s arm, ignoring his protesting _ow_. “Come on. We gotta move this before it gets dark in case the wind picks up tonight.”

Spencer rubbed his arm, frowning. “Is that normal?” he asked. “Physical violence to show comradery?” He paused. “You didn’t tell me your birthday.”

“Yes, I don’t know, I guess so?” Aaron grunted, hefting one corner of the rough structure up, fingers tight on the smooth bark of the branches. “And I’m not going to. You’re so clever, guess it. I have to keep some mystery; you know? Grab that corner, come on.”

His only reply was another raised eyebrow and a muttered, “Sure thing, boss.”

On his way home that night, he detoured past the library again. The librarian looked up, smiled offhand at him, a little thrown that she’d seen him twice in the one week. He slunk past, unsure where to even _begin_ to look. But after finally getting Spencer talking… well, after three hours of only following half of what he was talking about, Aaron was feeling a little out of his depth, and a lot intrigued. He’d never known anyone this… well, clever? He guessed. There wasn’t really words for the never-ending rush of information his new friend managed without stopping for breath. But, he was determined that tomorrow he’d have something to talk about. Because, maybe Spencer still didn’t think they were friends, but Aaron was utterly determined they would be. “Excuse me?” he asked, standing on tiptoe to lean his arms on the front counter, elbow nudging the bell. The librarian beamed at him. “Do you have a copy of The Lord of the Rings?”


	3. Halcyon - August, 1992

On the last day, they finished it.

Aaron stepped back and examined his clearing— _their_ clearing, because it was just as much Spencer’s as his now, and there was no changing that, not ever. Their fort was sturdy, the back open to the fence so they could sit in there and look down at the water below, the sides made of wood they’d found in the old railyards and dragged up here. It even had a door made of an old gate that Spencer had, somehow, ingeniously rigged up hinges to, proudly swinging back and forth on it to show off and almost flying into a tree when his hands had slipped. The roof was branches layered over and over each other with a tarp in-between. Not even the wind tugged at it. Inside, they fit easily with just enough room to spare to add a table made from a broken crate and an old foam camping pad that Aaron had found getting dusty in his garage. Spencer had brought a gallon bottle of water and duct-taped a cheap head-lamp to the side, facing inward, making a surprisingly bright light source.

It was _brilliant_.

“You know,” Spencer said suddenly, peering at the narrow pathway that wound through the thick trees to reach the quarry edge, “Rhosgobel is surrounded by Mirkwood. The Forest of Great Fear.”

Aaron snorted. Out _there_ was nothing but a bunch of beer cans and some old car heaps that had gotten dumped up here. Everything he cared about was in this alcove. “Well, lucky we’re not out there then,” he pointed out, using his foot to nudge a rock away from the doorway. “You think this place is gonna hold up through winter?”

Spencer was quiet. “I guess, maybe,” he said, just as withdrawn as he’d been all day so far. They were both decidedly _not_ thinking that this might be… well, the end. Of something. A friendship? “Not if the snow heaps on it. If only…” The clearing darkened as a wayward cloud scudded across the sky, both of them shivering at the sudden sombre mood that settled with it. Across the quarry a bird called, the sound shrill and echoing. Dogs barked. The horizon was tinged orange, the afternoon drawing on and cicadas around them waking and shouting their irritation with the fact that summer was ending. Aaron didn’t want it to end, this summer. This… something. This almost-friendship that was like nothing he’d ever had before, and kind of suspected he’d never have again if he let it go. Like a rare trading card given away foolishly without checking to see what it was worth.

“I’ll look after it,” he said, and meant it. Spencer looked at him, eyes hopeful. “Rhosgobel, I mean. I’ll come check on it every week you’re gone, so when you come back next year, it’s still here. If you come back. When…”

The cloud finished its course across the sun, the day lightening again. “I’ll come back,” Spencer said, smiling crookedly. “You still haven’t finished the book.”

He’d… finished a few pages. It was _hard_. Avoiding the weird kick of joy at the knowledge this might be the start of something after all, not the end of it, Aaron shrugged and said, “Well, I’d read more now, but we should finish camouflaging the side. In case anyone looks from across the quarry.”

Rocks scattered under Spencer’s shoes as he bounced, always hyper-active when he had a goal, and Aaron followed more sedately after, dragging a leafy branch behind him. A bug crawled across the end, flicked its wings angrily, and jumped to Spencer’s shoulder, who glanced at it. “Banded longhorn beetle,” he identified, knocking it off his shirt with a careful finger and letting it hurtle to the roof of their fort instead. “I can read you bits while we work, if you want.”

Aaron watched the beetle walking proudly along the line of their roof. “How you gonna do that and work?” he scoffed, hefting the branch as Spencer scrambled up the side of the structure until his sneakers were next to the beetle, keeping a wary eye on it, reaching back down for his end. “You’re just trying to get out of hard work! Typical kid.”

Spencer inhaled deeply, fighting a grin, and rambled off faster than Aaron could barely comprehend, “‘But it is not your own Shire. Others dwelt here before hobbits were; and others will dwell here again when hobbits are no more. The wide world is all about you: you can fence yourselves in, but you cannot for ever fence it out.’ I don’t need a book. I remember it all.”

“All of it?” Aaron was stunned.

Spencer nodded. “All of it.” His cheeks flushed. “Is that… I mean, I’m not… bragging.”

“That’s so cool,” Aaron breathed. “Can you do more? I’m up to the party—can you do the _whole_ thing?”

A nod. “Yeah. No one has ever called it ‘cool’ before…” The blush was darkening, but it was pleased this time.

It wasn’t just cool. It was _awesome_. No wonder he was a genius—Aaron wished he could remember everything he read. No more school, that was for sure. “No-one is dumb then,” he said firmly. “It’s basically the coolest. Can you do more?”

He could. And did. And that last day ticked by with Spencer barely pausing to breathe, eagerly reciting the story to his audience, the branches laying forgotten at their feet. “‘When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton.’”

Aaron was late home and his dad wasn’t pleased, but he never regretted it.

“Nine months,” he whispered, laying on his belly on the cool sheets of his bed and squeezing his eyes shut against everything awful, one hand splayed across the cover of the book he’d borrowed. “Only nine months until summer comes again.”

It felt like _forever_.


	4. Epistolary, 1992-93

**INTERNAL MEMO 09/25/1992**

**TO:** Penny Arthur

**FROM:** Cathy Bowers

**TOPIC LINE:** Aaron Hotchner

Saw you got Aaron this year! He’s a bright little thing, isn’t he? Nothing like his brother at all.

 

**INTERNAL MEMO 09/25/1992**

**TO:** Cathy Bowers

**FROM:** Penny Arthur

**TOPIC LINE:** re: Aaron Hotchner

Oh, he’s lovely. Very quiet though. I honestly can’t get him to engage with the work or any of his peers. Any tips?

 

**INTERNAL MEMO 09/26/1992**

**TO:** Penny Arthur

**FROM:** Cathy Bowers

**TOPIC LINE:** re: Aaron Hotchner

I’ve never had a problem with getting him to work. Do you think things are okay at home? Maybe send a letter if it doesn’t improve. I’d hate to see him slip through the cracks.

 

**INTERNAL MEMO 09/26/1992**

**TO:** Cathy Bowers

**FROM:** Penny Arthur

**TOPIC LINE:** re: Aaron Hotchner

Will do.

 

* * *

 

Mr. & Mrs. Hotchner

(street address not disclosed)

Manassas, VA, 20110

October 03, 1992

 

Dear Mr. & Mrs. Hotchner,

 

I hope this letter finds you well, and that you are enjoying this beautiful autumn weather we’re having. I wanted to get in contact with you to discuss Aaron’s behaviour in class recently. As of fairly recently, Aaron has been seemed very withdrawn at his desk and appears to be isolating himself from his peers and friends within the classroom. I’ve discussed this behaviour with his previous grade teacher and she believes that this is hugely out of character for him. There is also a marked decrease in his attention with classwork. Of the three graded assignments we’ve begun so far this term, he’s only half-completed one of them.

In addition to this concerning behaviour, my attempts to discuss my concerns with Aaron caused him to become confrontational and surly, resulting in his removal from the classroom for a period of time. His behaviour has shown this negative change only since returning from the summer break, and I and the other teachers who have all had the pleasure of Aaron’s company in the past are all concerned.

At your earliest convenience, please contact me to schedule a time to discuss solutions for Aaron’s care. We genuinely care about him and are worried about this spontaneous variation in his behaviour. Hopefully, we can work together and devise a strategy to address any possible issues he may be struggling with.

We look forward to hearing from you. Take care.

Miss. Penny Arthur

Bennet Elementary School

 

* * *

 

**Personal memo: P. Arthur**

Re: Aaron Hotchner

  * Withdrawal continuing as of 3rd Returned from break with increased wariness and deflective behaviour. Keeping record.
  * Sent another letter to parents 15th No reply to last. Sent via post this time rather than Aaron—did he hide the last one??
  * Parents declined discussion of behaviour. Referred Aaron to school counsellor. 23 Nov.
  * Aaron became uncooperative today 28th Nov during an assignment requiring them to write a short paragraph about their family. When I asked him if he would rather do something else, he removed himself from the classroom. Found him by the playground sitting alone at lunch. Won’t be disciplining him for this. I think there’s something more going on here.
  * Instead of family assignment, am giving Aaron a creative writing task. Have caught him reading a fantasy book instead of working multiple times—anything to get him to engage.



 

* * *

 

**Your task: write a story with a HAPPY ending! Don’t forget that all stories have a BEGINNING, a MIDDLE, and an END. But there’s a twist—your character isn’t HUMAN! How does this change your story? (two pages max)**

It is cold out there so I stay in here. There’s a drop out there, not so far, and I could fall from there. Slip through the holes in the fence and fly down and down and down until I hit the water SPLASH. Except now the water is ice, the winter is here, and I stay inside.

It wasn’t always like this. There wasn’t always this warm home. There wasn’t always the wind and the cold and the FEAR outside. The drop was always there though. When it was summer I had no home and I flew around and around through the holes in the fence and never fell and never was scared of the ground. And I didn’t think much at all, because I didn’t have the brain for it. I didn’t know I could.

But the world changed. The sun got hotter and the days got longer and someone made a home here. They were too big for me to see, but I could hear their voices loud and roaring like a motor running. I don’t speak their language. But I listen. I think their language might have been magic, because the more I listen, the more I know.

And now it is cold and I think a lot. The big voices went away when the summer did. Sometimes one comes back, but he doesn’t talk anymore. The magic only works when there’s someone to listen. I can’t go outside because my wings would freeze and my feet too and maybe the snow will come and bury me and this magic home and then even the lonely voice will have to stay out there in the GREAT FEAR.

So I stay inside and I wait, because winter always ends and summer always comes after. I look forward to it. When summer comes, I will probably die, because beetles only live for a little while and winter is hard on us.

But I have had a good life, inside this magic home, thinking things beetles have never thought before. And I look forward to it.

 

Aaron Hotchner, Age 11.

 

_This is a wonderful story, Aaron, very clever and evocative, but the task did call for a happy ending. Is the beetle dying really a happy ending? Please see me to discuss. Miss. A._

 

* * *

 

**INTERNAL MEMO 12/04/1992**

**TO:** Penny Arthur

**FROM:** Jack Turner

**TOPIC LINE:** Aaron Hotchner

Cathy said you’ve been keeping tabs on the Hotchner kid. Supposed to be out playing football today, but he refused to change in front of the other lads. When I finally got him out there, he wouldn’t take off his school windbreaker. Long sleeves. I’m not implying anything, but…

 

**INTERNAL MEMO 12/04/1992**

**TO:** Jack Turner

**FROM:** Penny Arthur

**TOPIC LINE:** Re: Aaron Hotchner

Noted.

 

* * *

 

**Personal memo: P. Arthur**

Re: Aaron Hotchner

  * Counsellor states Aaron is proving uncooperative. I think he wants to talk, he just doesn’t know how. Principal recommended another letter home. I’m going to try something else first.
  * Aaron returned from Christmas break: healing bruise on the right side of his temple, an inch and a half in diameter. He says he fell playing with his brother. Brother ran away last year??? 5th Jan, 1993. Am contacting CPS at counsellor’s recommendation.



 

* * *

 

To The Book,

This is so dumb. What’s the point of writing to no one? Miss A says I should write a ~~diary~~ ~~journal~~ this. I have nothing to write about.

Aaron H

01/12/1993

 

To The Dumb Book

Nothing ever happens anymore

Aaron H

01/17/1993

 

To Book

People came knocking at our house today. A lady asked to see my room. I don’t know why. There’s nothing good in there. Everything I like is at Rhosgobel. She asked to see Sean’s room too but then Dad got mad and shouted. He shouts more now. I think Sean leaving made him madder. ~~I wish Sean never left.~~ I don’t care.

Aaron H

02/01/1993

 

To The Still Stupid Book

Miss A says we need to talk about FEELINGS all the time and it’s so stupid. Why does she care so much?? ~~Why doesn’t she go and have her own kids to annoy about FEELINGS and TALKING instead of always bothering me~~

I feel mean when I don’t say anything but Mom says **don’t**. House things stay in the house or Ill make Dad mad too. This book stays in the house though so

I **HATE** winter

I HATE school but Miss A is cool

I HATE Tony

~~I HATE Dad~~

~~I miss Spencer~~

Aaron H

02/23/1993

 

To The Book

I don’t want to write anymore so I’m not gonna.

He’s probably not coming back anyway.

Aaron H

03/10/1993


	5. Halcyon - June, 1993

It had become kind of automatic. Wake up as early as possible, make some toast, and eat it while biking down to the quarry. Things weren’t really good at home, so he’d started keeping his favourite stuff at Rhosgobel anyway. Stuff like the stupid book, despite school term being over, and the library book he’d borrowed again. Just in case.

But a week of summer break had passed alone, and when Aaron dragged his bike under the bushes and squeezed into the gap hiding Rhosgobel from the world, it was still empty. Not even a beetle to greet him.

Not that he cared. He _didn’t_.

It wasn’t because he cared that every day he carefully checked the ties of the supports to make sure the snow and the wind hadn’t made them brittle. And it wasn’t because he cared that he’d made sure none of the trash from outside had found its way in here. It wasn’t at all because he cared, because if the last year had taught him anything, caring got you hurt. But he did it all anyway. As well as checking that the hinges on the door weren’t rusting, oiling them to keep them quiet when he swung it carefully, before curling up inside the fort with a pillow, the water-light adding to the weak illumination filtering through the wooden sides, his notebook open on his knees and the library book in his hand.

Reading it was _hard_. The sentences tangled in places, using lots of grammar and weird words he didn’t know and tripped over, even when he carefully sounded the words out to himself. So he’d found a dictionary in Sean’s old desk and used the stupid book for something _useful_. And interesting, oddly. Boring at first, but slowly… well, Aaron was finding that there was a kind of power in words he’d never known about before.

“As he has ever judged,' said Aragorn,” Aaron read slowly, letting the words whisper into Rhosgobel like some kind of spell, adding to the hush of the warm afternoon. Even the bugs had gone quiet. “‘Good and evil have not changed since yesteryear, nor are they one thing among Elves and another among Men. It is a man's part to discern… discern? Dis…” Flicking the dictionary open, finding the word, tracing the pen along it carefully before copying it ever so studiously into the growing list of words filling the not-so-stupid-anymore book. “Perceive or recognise something…”

“Whatcha doing?”

Aaron dropped the book with a yelp, leaping to his feet and slamming his head into the low roof, staring at the face peeking through the silent door. “Argh! What—who… Spence?!”

A bright grin was his answer. “Hi, Aaron,” Spencer said, inching through the door on his knees and smiling up at him as though a day hadn’t passed between their last meeting. _Maybe it hadn’t_ , Aaron thought wildly, his heart galloping and stomach all weird. _Maybe this whole last year was an awful dream._ “You came back!”

Aaron blinked. What an odd thing to say. “No I didn’t,” he corrected him, sitting back down and shifting over on the mat so Spencer could scramble onto it next to him, elbows knocking together. “I never left.”

Hazel eyes met his, tired and happy all at once. “Thanks,” Spencer murmured finally, reaching for the notepad. Aaron let it go. He’d torn out the pages he didn’t want anyone to see. “No one’s ever waited for me before. Are you still reading Lord of the Rings?”

A soft noise slipped from Aaron’s mouth, his turn to flush with embarrassment. It _was_ embarrassing. He’d always thought he was smart, but at school… he couldn’t focus anymore, his grades were awful, the work was _hard_ when it shouldn’t be, and Spencer… well, why would a genius be interested in someone like him? “It’s a long book,” he said, and hated himself immediately for the excuse. “I’ve been… trying. Some bits are really difficult.”

But Spencer didn’t seem amused or annoying by his slow speed. Instead, the smile only got bigger. “That’s great!” he said, bouncing despite sitting still. Aaron copped a bony elbow to the hip, the crate bumping away as Spencer turned and his knee smacked it. Kid was all legs; still short though. “We can keep reading together! I was worried you’d have finished it and we’d have nothing to do.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, Aaron felt something other than sick and small and worried. It was a little change. Just a twist in his chest, like a bubble of something warm fizzing up and popping. It worked its way up his stomach and into his throat as a heavy lump and he… smiled. A thin, strange smile, he knew, and it almost felt _sore_ the way it sat on his face, but Spencer didn’t seem to notice. Just returned it, almost…

Almost exactly the same. A narrow, desperate kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Eyes smiled too, Aaron had noted over the last nine months. He hadn’t been able to do a lot of _thinking_ while his brain was all small and worried, but he’d done a lot of watching. Behaviour, he’d found, was a good way to solve his problems. Watching for the red flush on his dad’s face. Watching for the white lips that meant his mom was biting back something. Watching for the flick of her eyes towards him to indicate he should go away now, go away fast, and not come out, no matter what he heard.

His teacher was a smiler. Miss. A smiled a lot, all the time, and with all of her body. Her hands and shoulders and eyes and mouth. But, sometimes, when he was being small and worried and couldn’t find his words, only her mouth smiled.

Spencer was smiling like that now.

“Are you okay?” he said, without meaning to, because he hated when people asked him that when he _couldn’t_ answer, didn’t they know house things had to stay home? He’d been relieved to see his friend, more relieved than he’d ever admit, but that didn’t mean _anything_ if Spencer wasn’t happy to be here. Silence was his answer. The mouth-smile vanished, and Spencer stared at him with wide eyes behind his thick glasses, his chin wobbling slightly. He swallowed and the sound was loud.

And Aaron recognised that too. That was the _please don’t, I can’t_ face.

“You know,” he said, instead of prying, “we could expand this place a little. There’s this old car just over there—we could probably turn it into something like the black tower of Isengard. If you want…” _We’ve got all summer,_ he wanted to add, but that sounded too much like pleading.

Spencer nodded, the wobble vanishing and the half-smile coming back. That was okay. There was a magic of some kind, in this place—if they focused on bringing it back, it would keep everything outside away. Aaron was sure. “Orthanc,” he said, voice cracking.

“Huh?”

“The black tower. Its name is Orthanc. And that would be… Aaron?” He was looking down, cheeks pale and ears red. Aaron didn’t talk, didn’t distract him, just touched his elbow with his hand in just like Miss. A did for him when he was sad “Thanks. For… being here.”

That was silly. He didn’t need to thank him for that.

But…

“Thanks for coming back,” Aaron said, and truly meant it.


	6. Halcyon - July, 1993

Tires were great to make a mighty tower but, as they were finding, had one massive downside.

“There are about three thousand and four hundred spider species native to North America,” Spencer called out from his perch _far_ away from Aaron’s valiant battle for Rhosgobel. “Thirteen of which are found in Virginia.”

“Well, that’s great, kid,” Aaron called back, trying to get the stick under the spider to roll it towards the quarry and well away from their fingers. “How many of them are dangerous?”

The answer was swift. “Two.”

Aaron paused. The spider seemed to as well, waggling his legs in the air at Aaron as if to scold him for their rude interrupting of whatever it was he was doing before they’d grabbed the tire and, unwittingly, him along with it. “I’m assuming by the fact you’re up a tree, this is one of those dangerous spiders?” The spider, as though it had heard him, stepped closer. Aaron scuttled back quickly, just in case.

“Oh no, that’s just a wolf spider. They’re harmless. Sort of. Do you know that if you aim a flashlight at them, it will create ‘eyeshine’ and reflect? Actually, if you aim a flashlight into grass at night—or, probably, even the bushes around here—and see light flickering back, it’s actually very likely dozens of wol—”

Aaron dropped the stick and ran for the tree. Skin crawling, he almost dragged Spencer out of it as he heaved himself up. “Nope,” he said, covering the other boy’s mouth. “Shut up now, shut up fast. I don’t want to _know_ how many millions of spiders are—”

“Probably watching us right now,” Spencer mumbled into his palm, breath hot and eyes huge. “I don’t like spiders with _knees_ , Aaron. Look at them. They’re… _crunchy_.”

They both looked down at the spider. Aaron thought of stepping on it, vividly imagined the _crunch_ sound that Spencer seemed so repulsed by, and the shiver was back. “Hey, Spence,” he asked, standing on the branch and sending a cloud of bark showering to the ground. “I have a question.”

“I very likely have an answer,” Spencer replied promptly, taking advantage of Aaron’s hand being away from his mouth to shove his glasses back up his nose and tear a chunk of bark from the branch to toss at the patiently waiting spider.

“Can spiders climb trees?”

Spencer blinked, then looked up. Something touched Aaron’s head. Something… _spidery._

“Argh!” they both yelled, leaping from the tree and sprinting out of the alcove, bursting from the trees in a shower of leaves and bark and screaming. Aaron brushed frantically at his clothes, shaking his head, seeing Spencer dancing in odd circles out the corner of his eye. After a wild, panicked moment of _nothing but panic_ , Aaron realised Spencer wasn’t dancing—he was laughing.

“It’s a leaf, a leaf,” Spencer chanted, buckled over with his arms around his belly as he giggled helplessly. “It’s just a leaf, Aaron!”

The leaf in question floated innocently to the ground.

“I knew that,” Aaron lied. A raised eyebrow was his answer. “I was just testing you. I was getting bored of building anyway. We should…” He looked around. It was a hot, sticky day, and their scramble to escape meant they were both pretty grimy and sweaty by this point. “… go down to the lake? The water is probably real nice right now.”

Spencer frowned. “I don’t know how to swim.”

“What?” How was that… “Really?”

The picture of guilt, Spencer shrugged, slinging his hands into his pockets. There was a leaf stuck to the arm of his glasses. “I live in Nevada. It’s not exactly conductive to _water_.”

“I can teach you?” The offer slipped out before he’d thought it through, and it hung uncertain in the air between them.

“Probably not a great idea,” Spencer said finally, looking down and scuffing his sneakers in the dirt. “No offence, but… if something went wrong. Which, honestly, it probably would with me.”

That was true. Aaron glanced to where his bike was barely visible behind some trees. “I could double you down to town and we could… I dunno, look around?” Not that there was a whole lot to look at, really. “Oh, hey, I think Sean still has his old bike in the garage. No one will notice if you borrow it, and we can go check out Bull Run. You like all that old history stuff, yeah?”

Spencer brightened for a moment, interest sparking across his face, vanishing in a second. “Uh,” he said, and looked at the bike. There was a long pause. Aaron studied him carefully, disbelief building.

“You don’t know how to ride a bike do you?” he asked, and Spencer shrugged, looking miserable. “Well, you know. No one ever drowned riding a bike. I _can_ teach you that.”

Spencer’s mouth opened, probably to rattle of a list of people who’d drowned doing just that, but Aaron shut him up by scooping his helmet off the handlebars and ditching it at him. The look of fear would have been funny if it didn’t make the kid look even _younger_.

“Cheer up,” Aaron reassured him. “I’ve never lost a trainee yet.”

“How many trainees have you had?” Spencer slipped the helmet on, the buckle clicking as he did it up and hanging ridiculously loose from his head. Stepping closer, Aaron could practically smell the nervousness radiating from the smaller boy as he adjusted the strap for him, slipping two fingers between the buckle and Spencer’s jaw to test and feeling his pulse thrumming against his fingers.

“I mean, you’re the first, but that’s lucky, right?”

In hindsight, it would have probably been smarter to not have Spencer’s first bike riding lesson on the sloped road leading down to the quarry lake. In hindsight, it probably could have gone better.

But, hey, on the bright side, they got their swimming lesson too.

 

* * *

 

“My mom is going to kill me,” Aaron said happily, sprawling on his back on the sun-warmed rocks of the quarry shore and squinting up into the sky. It felt _endless_ , this day. Long and endless and fantastic.

Spencer huffed, tugging his shirt off and squeezing a torrent of water out of it, goosebumps rising along his narrow shoulderblades. Aaron watched with interest, amused to see that the kid was every bit as scrawny as he’d suspected he would be; nothing but skin that was way too white for a boy from Vegas—although there was a warning pink to his shoulders that had Aaron making a mental note to nab some aloe-vera from the bathroom before coming back tomorrow—and sticky-out ribs that Aaron could probably tap a tune out on if he had a drumstick with him.

“You did that on purpose,” Spencer stammered, shivering, smiling despite the chill wind that crept down the quarry and snuck out from the shady sides to chill them both. “You _knew_ I’d end up in the water.”

“Well,” Aaron said, closing his eyes and enjoying the last of the sun. Tomorrow, they’d work more on the tower. Maybe bring something to deal with the spider invasion. And the day after and the day after and there were still _weeks_ left of this. Practically forever. “Turns out you can swim, so there’s that?”

“That wasn’t swimming, it was flailing.” Spencer flopped next to him, laying his shirt out on the stones and scowling at the lake. Aaron’s bike sat on the shore, dripping dry, rescued from a watery end once Aaron had stopped laughing. They fell quiet. “You’re not going to be in trouble for your bike, will you?” He sounded worried.

“Nah.” Not once he hid it until it dried, anyway. “Dad won’t…” He trailed off, biting his lip. His dad was _not_ a topic he wanted to touch on… but Spencer seemed distracted anyway. Face twisted, Aaron could see his chest rising and falling quickly, as though he was barely holding himself back from saying something. The breeze picked up, ripping straight through Aaron’s sodden clothes and making him gasp. There was no getting around it. It was either go home and get changed, or… he stripped his shirt off slowly, inching back on his butt so Spencer was sitting slightly in front of him, eyes on the lake and mouth still tight. When he wrung out the shirt, the water trickled down the stones and pooled below his friend’s thigh, making him twitch with surprise and turn to look at him.

Caught, Aaron tucked his knees up to his chest, flushing red. The moment lingered. Way too long and way too quiet, and Spencer’s eyes traced the fading hint of a bruise.

“My dad left me,” Spencer said suddenly, swallowing hard. Aaron blinked, thrown, letting his knees drop, and Spencer wasn’t looking at him at all now, but looking down, eyes squeezed tight against the words, and he wasn’t done. “That’s why… it’s why I was late. Mom wasn’t. I didn’t want to leave her but she said I had to and drove me here. She’s not… well. And I’m like I am, so Dad left. Because there’s something inherently wrong with me.”

He wasn’t talking now. Aaron watched a tear track down his narrow nose, his head tilted away to try and hide it from him. There wasn’t really anything he could say to that.

“That’s not true,” he said instead, and shuffled closer. “That’s… there’s nothing wrong with you. Parents have problems of their own too, and it’s not our fault. It’s… there’s nothing wrong with _either_ of us.”

“It’s selfish of me to be sad,” Spencer said. There was blood on his lip where he’d bitten at it. “But I just… it happened and Mom wouldn’t stop crying and all I could think of was coming back here. To Rhosgobel. And now I don’t ever want to go home.”

There was something he could say to that.

The truth.

“Neither do I.”


	7. Halcyon - August, 1993

Dark clouds rolled in, bringing with them the suffocating sense of the world closing around Rhosgobel and a humid heat that drained all the energy from the day. Inside the fort was deathly, the two boys soaked with sweat within an hour of the sun peaking, so they’d found a shady corner of the alcove to sprawl bonelessly on the slate-rock ground.

“I hate summer,” Aaron grumbled, not really meaning it but sour with the cloying heat.

“Try living in Nevada,” Spencer replied, happily chewing on the stick that was all that remained of the popsicles he’d brought from the guy running his group. Aaron had eaten one, and wisely decided to allow Spencer free reign over the remaining three after noting the mad-hungry gleam in his eyes. “It averages three hundred and ten sunny days a year. Although, never like _this_. This humidity is disgusting.” He shook his head to illustrate his point, the stick clicking against his teeth as his hair stuck grossly to his forehead. “Yuck.”

Aaron grunted, his temper shortening as the sun continued its steady assault on them, closing his eyes and thinking forward. Autumn soon. It wasn’t as pleasing a thought as it would have once been. “School is going to be _shit_ this year,” he said savagely, biting through his popsicle stick. “Wish I didn’t have to go.”

Spencer was quiet. “I like school,” he said, but there was a loud _but_ hidden in the soft words. “Sort of. I like learning. The students…”

Rolling over, Aaron looked at him. “You gotta stick up for yourself,” he said, feeling like a hypocrite. No one picked on him at school, but when his dad started on him… he never stuck up for himself. What was the point? “Do what I showed you. Here.” He stood, dragging Spencer up by his slippery hand. “When they come for you, hit them here—” He knocked the side of his hand gently against Spencer’s throat. “Or the eyes. It’ll slow them down, and then you run. You’re too little to do anything fancy like pinning them.”

“They’re all bigger than me,” Spencer said, touching his throat where Aaron had bumped his hand.

That wasn’t hard to believe. “They can’t be _that_ much bigger,” Aaron said reasonably. “I mean, you could probably take me down if you really needed to, and I’m the tallest in my grade. And there’s only three kids taller than me in the school—so if you can take me, you can take them.”

Spencer breathed slowly, wiping his hand across his forehead to flick hair out of his eyes. This close to him, Aaron could see smudges on his glasses, a nick on the frame, a sticky smear from the popsicle on his cheek. “I’m in high school. _Everyone_ is bigger than me.”

His immediate reaction was _of course you are_ , but what actually happened was his heart stumbling for a second as he very vividly imagined Spencer surrounded by teenagers. The kinds of teenagers that hung out down the hill. The kind that he’d rescued him from the first time they’d met. “Maybe just run then,” he ended up saying weakly, knowing it wasn’t really helpful advice. “What’s… what’s it like? High school?” Only two years till it was his turn, after all.

Spencer looked down, shrugging. Aaron was suddenly aware of how close they were standing, stepping back and flopping back down, tired and sweaty and just _urgh_. “The coursework is interesting, if narrow. I enjoy the greater diversity in topics. Teachers are either delighted by the novelty of me, or unsure of how to approach designing a curriculum around my inclusion in their class.” He looked back at Aaron, mouth twitching. “Mostly, it’s lonely.”

“At least you don’t have to do stupid crap like that.” Aaron jabbed his thumb at the battered notepad he’d, weirdly, gotten used to lugging around with him. “They’re making me write a _journal._ Like a girl. It’s so dumb.”

Spencer looked at it, before reaching and flipping through the pages, picking at a corner where Aaron had dripped milk when eating cereal one morning. “There’s pages missing,” he murmured, glancing at Aaron through lowered lashes. “You’ve been writing?”

A shrug. Not totally willing to commit to the admission of the tin tucked deep within Rhosgobel with his ramblings folded inside. “Just stupid stuff. Nothing real important. Writing is pretty lame.” Writing _wasn’t_ lame. Writing was the one thing he could really do these days, without feeling completely out of his element, but there was knowing that, and there was telling someone else that. No one else he knew wrote things. It didn’t really seem like a thing people did.

“I don’t think so.” Spencer was tracing his fingers down the list of Aaron’s words, his voice wistful. “I write letters to myself sometimes, when I get too many things happening in my brain at once. It helps… make sense of things. Things I can’t tell my mom or my teachers or…”

“You can tell me.” His mouth running away with him was beginning to become a theme, but this was probably the worst time. Spencer’s head snapped up with an almost audible sound of his neck crinking, eyes wide and stunned, glasses slipping down his nose. But there was no going back. Aaron swallowed, folded his hands into his lap and said, “That’s what friends do, right? They talk about things they can’t tell others. Like your mom and school and…” _My dad,_ he almost said, but he could _never_ talk about that. “My brother.”

Around the spiral-binding of the book, Spencer’s knuckles were white. “We could write letters,” he breathed, chest moving quickly, excited without wanting to display that excitement in case Aaron took it away. “I mean, we already kind of write them, but. We could _actually_ send them to each other. And not wait until summer to talk—only if you want to, really, it’s fine if you don’t, I don’t want to be a bother…” He trailed to a stammering halt, red-faced and clearly terrified of making a mistake. Aaron looked at the notepad. Thought of the long, cold months on his own. Thought of the long, cold nights in his room huddled on his bed and lonely enough to ache.

“I’d love that,” he said, and meant it.


	8. Epistolary, 1993-94

**INTERNAL MEMO 09/02/1993**

**TO:** Adam Carmody

**FROM:** Penny Arthur

**TOPIC LINE:** Aaron Hotchner

Hey, Adam. I understand that Aaron Hotchner is still assigned to you for counselling? He’s moved up to sixth now, so he’s not in my classes anymore. Do you think you’d be able to keep me updated on his progress? I know things weren’t really developing as much as we’d have liked last year.

 

**INTERNAL MEMO 09/02/1993**

**TO:** Penny Arthur

**FROM:** Adam Carmody

**TOPIC LINE:** Re: Aaron Hotchner

Of course, Pen. We’re letting him settle in for a week or two in his new class—he’s with Turner now, right? —then we’ll see about slotting him in on a regular schedule. Is there anything you think I should try with him? He was completely stonewalling me last year, and you know him best.

 

**INTERNAL MEMO 09/02/1993**

**TO:** Adam Carmody

**FROM:** Penny Arthur

**TOPIC LINE:** Re: Aaron Hotchner

Thanks Adam. He loves fantasy and writing. I had him keeping a journal, but he only showed me snippets and I didn’t want to pry. He talked a lot about a boy named Spencer, but there’s no Spencers enrolled here besides one in first grade? I checked, thinking maybe it would do him good to transfer to a class with his friend. There’s not much else I know that you don’t, I’m afraid.

 

**INTERNAL MEMO 09/02/1993**

**TO:** Penny Arthur

**FROM:** Adam Carmody

**TOPIC LINE:** Re: Aaron Hotchner

No worries. I’ll see you Saturday and fill you in if anything changes.

 

* * *

 

Dear Aaron,

I know it’s only been a few days since I left, but I didn’t want to wait! This is so weird. Not the actual writing, that’s not weird, I write all the time, but writing TO someone is new and exciting and I can’t believe you’re actually going to read this ~~I’m rambling a little. I do that a lot. Ramble, that is. You’ve probably noticed. And I’m doing it again~~

Mom got me a present while I was away! It’s a BIG box of movie tapes from the rental store nearby—they were having a sale and Mom found tons and tons of horror movies, all kinds, and a VCR player! She says the best way not to be sad anymore is to scare away all the sad instead, and then she said that she’s probably going to regret this when my brain rots away from too much television, but she was smiling so I think that last bit is a joke, maybe? Brains don’t actually rot from television I don’t think. I looked it up anyway, and it doesn’t appear that there’s a correlation, especially not if we’re taking things LITERAL, there definitely doesn’t seem to be a link between any kind of brain rotting diseases and television but I did find out about naegleriasis which is like a brain-eating amoeba which straight up kills you dead if you get it by going through the olfactory mucosa in your nasal tissues and getting in your brain and actually does rot your brain. But you get it from swimming, not television, so I think we’re okay.

But the movies. Have you seen them? There’s one called just The Thing and they’re in Antarctica on a research station (did you know Antarctica has the highest average intelligence of any country? Do you know why? It’s really interesting, and has to do with self-selecting biases—

[Page 1 of 27]

 

* * *

 

**Book Reports**  
**Every six weeks, students will be responsible for turning in a book report. Book reports promote literacy and strengthen skills in reading comprehension, reading fluency, and writing.  All books selected for book reports must be approved by the teacher.**

 

**Report Number #1 – Write a draft of your opening paragraph for a non-graded pass and feedback to help you with writing the main report.**

The Lord of the Rings is a book by J.R.R Tolkien. It is a fantasy book set in a place called Middle Earth, which isn’t a real place. It was written over a long time and has three books. They’re very popular books.

 

_This is a very ambitious choice of literature, Aaron. I normally set a size limit on the books allowed for reports, but I’m willing to be persuaded to make an exception here if you prove that you’re up to the task. As an introductory paragraph, this is attempt is well below what I know you’re capable of. You’ve chosen this book for a reason. I’ll allow you to resubmit once before asking that you change your book. Mr. Turner._

* * *

To Spencer

Sean showed me a horror movie once where this girl’s head turned ALL THE WAY AROUND and it was sick. And there was a priest and lots of vomit and it was really gross and he made me cover my ears for one bit so I missed what happened but I think someone got thrown out of a window? Totally awesome—is that one in your box of movies??? I think it’s still in his room somewhere and if it is you should watch it and Ill watch it and write down what Im thinking and then its sort of like we’re watching it together! School is better. I have a new teacher and he’s not as nice as Miss A was. He puts lots of red marks on my work and makes me rewrite it over and over until he says it’s good. I don’t like him much, I don’t’ know why he picks on me. How is school? Have you had to run away from bigger kids yet? ~~Roshgo~~ Rhosgobel is looking good. It’s all orange and yellow and covered in leaves and looks just like what I imagined the place where Frodo and the others meet Tom would look—all leafy and kinda damp. Its getting cold though so I had to take a blanket up there and there was a beetle tryng to get under the blanket with me while I was writing this. Do you write stories as well as letters? Ive been thinking a bit. My teacher asked me why I picked Lord of the Rings to write about for school and I did it because it seems like somewhere you can be small and a Hobbit but people like Aragorn and Gandalf still think you’re ~~good strong~~ brave. ~~Its dumb but how cool would it be to write something like that.~~ Anyway I guess that’s why I picked it. Your letters are so long! How?!?!?! My hand is so sore already.

From Aaron H

PS. So I asked Mom for money for a stamp and she asked Dad and he says I can’t waste money on stupid things like this ~~and I hate him~~ so you’re probably nevr going to get this anywayan d it doesn’t matter but I hope youdn’t hatem [words illegibly smudged]

 

* * *

 

** Book Reports **

**Every six weeks, students will be responsible for turning in a book report. Book reports promote literacy and strengthen skills in reading comprehension, reading fluency, and writing.  All books selected for book reports must be approved by the teacher.**

 

**Report Number #1 – Write a draft of your opening paragraph for a non-graded pass and feedback to help you with writing the main report.**

The Lord of the Rings is a high fantasy—that means it’s set in a world that’s not ours—novel about a quest to save Middle Earth from the worst evil it’s ever seen. J.R.R Tolkien is the author, and it took him almost thirteen years to write it, spanning three books! Sauron is the bad guy and he used his magic and power to take over all of Middle Earth before he was defeated. But when the story begins in the first book, he is looking for a ring that will let him rise again, and continue causing trouble everywhere. Frodo and Sam are Hobbits who have to take the ring and throw it into lava in Mount Doom so no one can ever be tempted by its evil again.

I chose it because there are a lot of stories being told in the one book. I can’t talk about them all here because it would take a very long time and a lot more pages than I have. I can talk about my favourite though. I like the wizards, Gandalf and his friend Radagast, but Radagast isn’t mentioned much. But Gandalf is and he’s a good guy, one of the best there ever was, but he’s still tempted by the evil ring. It’s a lot of power and could let him be strong and fight back but it wouldn’t be right and so he never ever uses it. And I think that’s a very good story about being strong and doing the right thing, even when it would be easier to be bad.

 

_See, Aaron. I knew you were capable of more. This is the quality of work I expect to see all the time, Aaron. Don’t sell yourself short. May I recommend The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss for your next book if you would like to explore the fantasy subgenre some more? It can be a dark and complicated book, and if you have any questions about the themes, feel free to discuss with me._

_Mr. Turner._

 

* * *

 

Dear Aaron,

I’m sorry if my letter was too much. I asked Mom and she said maybe you’re STILL reading it because I wrote so much and if so, I’m sorry. I really don’t want us to not talk because of something I did. Look, this letter is short! I can write short letters! Can we try again?

It’s my birthday today and I remembered that you never told me your birthday. If it’s soon, Happy Birthday, and if it’s not, Happy Birthday anyway for when it comes. I’m eleven now. Still a kid though, right?

Hopefully hoping, Spencer

 

* * *

 

To Spencer

I’m sorry. Nothing is **fair**.

From Aaron H.

PS. Happy Birthday. I hope it was really good.

 

* * *

 

**INTERNAL MEMO 11/02/1993**

**TO:** Adam Carmody

**FROM:** Jack Turner

**TOPIC LINE:** A. Hotchner.

Found the Hotchner kid crying in the bathrooms at lunch. Wouldn’t tell me why. Think maybe a trip to you might help. It’s a pity—he’s doing so much better in class. I hope this isn’t a sign he’s regressing.

 

**INTERNAL MEMO 11/02/1993**

**TO:** Jack Turner

**FROM:** Adam Carmody

**TOPIC LINE:** Re: A. Hotchner

Thanks Jack. Will speak to him.

 

**INTERNAL MEMO 11/02/1993**

**TO:** Penny Arthur

**FROM:** Adam Carmody

**TOPIC LINE:** Aaron

So, I had Aaron in my office today. Jack found him crying at lunch. Turns out it’s the kid’s birthday and all he wanted was to send a letter to this ‘Spencer’. He asked his dad and apparently the man absolutely refused. Poor kid was a mess. Kept asking me if Spencer was going to hate him forever for ignoring him.

 

**INTERNAL MEMO 11/02/1993**

**TO:** Adam Carmody

**FROM:** Penny Arthur

**TOPIC LINE:** Re: Aaron

What?!? He wouldn’t buy him a stamp? God, some people. Does Aaron have the letter with him?? I have stamps in my desk. If we change the return address to the school…

 

**INTERNAL MEMO 11/02/1993**

**TO:** Penny Arthur

**FROM:** Adam Carmody

**TOPIC LINE:** Re: Aaron

Letter already mailed. Took it down there myself.

 

**INTERNAL MEMO 11/02/1993**

**TO:** Adam Carmody

**FROM:** Penny Arthur

**TOPIC LINE:** Re: Aaron

Oh, you’re fantastic. Keep me updated.

 

* * *

 

[Page 16 of 32]

—and then he suggested that I try out clay instead and it was AWFUL, like, there was clay on the roof and on my glasses and the guy sitting next to me and now I’m not allowed in the art rooms anymore for break. They let me take another math class instead of an art, so I guess it was kind of worth it??? I don’t think the teacher thought so at the time though.

Oh, I meant to ask, how did your Easter go? I know you mentioned you were going to visit family and I didn’t know if you’d be back yet. Did you know that

Sorry, I had to go and help Mom with something and now I can’t remember what I was going to write. Some total recall! I guess it only really works once I’ve written the thing down, sorry!

Did you end up writing the thing you were talking about ages ago? I know you weren’t sure but I think you should. I’ve never tried writing something that’s not real before, but I think it would be fun to try. Imagine if people had magic that was totally _mundane_. Like… it wasn’t proper magic, like Gandalf, but like. Book magic. Or singing magic. Mom showed me these pictures in a book of people dancing with ribbons and I think that could totally be some kind of magic! I’d probably have some lame kind of magic like only being able to cast a spell when actually looking at it written down somewhere. I’d have to carry around the world’s longest scroll! You’d have something cool though. Something EPIC and brave like turning into a HUGE DRAGON. Or maybe a little dragon because a big dragon wouldn’t be physically able to fly when considering mass and wingspan—there’s a reason insects are so little! Any bigger and the weight of their bodies would crush them.

Actually, I don’t think you’d be a dragon. That’s a very showy magic and you’re not very showy. ~~You do cool things without really~~ I think you’d have something better than being a dragon. Like friend magic. You’d be able to be anyone’s friend and make anyone feel better. That’s a good kind of magic I think—

 

* * *

 

**INTERNAL MEMO 05/29/1994**

**TO:** Jack Turner

**FROM:** ADMIN

**TOPIC LINE:** Aaron Hotchner Attendance

Parents contacted school on Monday. Aaron Hotchner will be absent for the foreseeable future due to an accident.

 

* * *

 

Dear Spencer

~~Wish you were here.~~

~~I don’t know how to do th~~

~~It’s so boring~~

I made something to show you. Had a lot of time to work on it. What do you think?

From Aaron H

[Page 1 of 5]


	9. Halcyon - June, 1994

Since the hiring had stopped—Aaron wasn’t super sure what that meant, but his dad shouted about it _all the time_ —Aaron’s dad had taken to sleeping in, which was normally great for Aaron because it meant he didn’t have to sprint from the house every morning to avoid annoying the man somehow.

On this particular day, it didn’t matter that his dad was sleeping in, because Aaron was out of the door before the sun had even risen properly, startling his mom with a hushed _bye, Mom, back for dinner_ , and grabbing his bike at a sprint with his good arm. Spring wasn’t a memory yet; the lawns he rode past were a blur of dew and green and still budding flowers, the trees turning their leaves up happily towards a sky that was yet to burn them in return and the few birds he saw were still barely flying, their bodies awkward and eyes bright with youth.

It was the beginning of everything, and he stood on the pedals and grinned at the birds he passed, the only others awake to share his wild enjoyment of this unending beginning.

Well, not the only others.

Spencer wasn’t at Rhosgobel. Aaron biked up the road towards the gates that were never shut, and saw a solitary figure swinging on the fencing, hair longer than ever and sweater hanging to his knees. “Spence!” he hollered, waving and wobbling dangerously, seeing his friend try to choose between jumping down or waving and ending up settling on an awkward mix of both that left him on his butt in the gravel, still waving. “Hey, you’re here, we’re here, it’s holidays!”

Spencer staggered up as Aaron came to a skidding stop and leapt off his bike, sending gravel spraying. “Hi, hello, yes,” he was saying around the smile that was wide enough that it looked like it _hurt_. “I’ve been here for—what _happened_?” The shock was visible on his face, the smile disappearing, eyes locked on Aaron’s brightly coloured cast.

He wove it gingerly with a shaky smile, seeing Spencer’s gaze skim over the liberal names and well-wishes he’d collected on the day his mom had taken him to collect his belongings from the school—and, secretly, slip a final letter to Mr. Carmody so he could send it to Spence for him, the envelope four times as big as usual and held together with generous amounts of tape and one desperate staple. _This is a large one,_ Mr. Carmody had said with a raised eyebrow. _Lots to say today, Aaron?_

And Aaron had smiled and replied, _It’s a secret right now, sir,_ waiting for his friend’s approval before sharing it with _anyone_ else.

“I fell down the stairs at home,” he admitted, wincing at his clumsiness. Spencer’s face went blank, paling even as his ears turned red, a sure sign of some sort of emotion Aaron had never seen on him before and was pretty sure he knew the origins of. “No, no, really. I actually did trip. I was being an idiot.” The look didn’t fade; Spencer’s back was rigid and his breathing rough, and Aaron realized with a cold shock that made his heart skip and stumble that Spencer was _angry_. And that was something he’d never been before, an alien look on his quiet features. Aaron stepped forward, curling his fingers carefully around his friend’s wrist, and murmured, “Honestly, Spence. I wouldn’t lie to you. I fell.”

And he did.

What he was running towards, he’d never admit though, not if it meant seeing _that_ expression again. The expression that vanished, leaving Spencer looking Spencery again, cocking his head to the side and asking, “Can I sign it? That would be cool. What bones did you break? Is it a straight break or a spiral? Did you have to—”

Tugging the pen from his back pocket that he’d known Spence would request, Aaron cut him off with a huffed, “ _Spence_ ,”, thrusting the pen at him. The other boy took it, a smile teasing the corner of his mouth, deliberately ignoring what Aaron was dying to know. “Come on, what did you _think_?”

“Think about what?” Spence said innocently, his poker face absolutely crap, carefully selecting a section of vivid green cast that was only slightly drawn on, and mostly by Aaron when he was bored. _The ‘funny bone’ is actually a nerve called the ulnar nerve that runs along your elbow_ , was being written in tiny, cramped writing on the green cast as Aaron watched, _and if you like bone facts, I have a skeleTON more._

“I hate you,” Aaron said, blinking twice and staring at the—now _forever_ on his arm, or at least for the next three weeks—pun. “Puns are the worst kind of joke.”

“Incorrect, puns are a fantastic use of the intricacies of the English language,” Spencer rebutted, capping the pen and shoving it behind his ear with a practised move that Aaron envied. He’d spent _hours_ practising that and the pen fell out every single time, until Mr. Turner had told him he’d confiscate it if his pen hit Mary once more on the way down. “Is this what you’re asking about?” He slipped out Aaron’s envelope from inside his sweater, waving it gently. It looked twice as fat as it had when Aaron had sent it, the corners worn from being handled. “I mean, I _might_ have read it, who knows, really…”

Aaron glared. “You totally read it,” he grumbled, grabbing at the envelope. Spencer danced backwards out of reach. “Hey, come on, no fair. I’ve only got one arm.”

Spencer smiled. It was a cheeky smile, a cat-smile, and Aaron half-suspected what he was going to do even before he rocked forward onto his toes and held his hand in the air. _You’ve grown_ , Aaron realized with a thrill, staring at his friend, and notably so if he was now almost level with Aaron’s mouth, since Aaron had been growing too. It was a weird thought, some visible proof that they’d stopped being the kids who’d stood just up the hill and declared that they’d never be friends.

“I might have added a little to it,” Spencer said, eyes worried despite his smile. “I hope you don’t mind…” Aaron _didn’t_ , hell no he didn’t, but he _did_ desperately want to see. But at his grab at the letter, all he got in return was an innocent, “Did you hurt your leg as well?”

Aaron automatically mouthed, “No, why?” before realising what Spencer intended to do as the other boy whooped and rocketed away at a sprint, bounding up the hill, letter in hand.

He’d gotten faster too.

“Hey!” Aaron hollered, grabbing his bike one-armed and racing after as fast as he could with his weight unevenly distributed. “No fair!”

His only answer was a laugh.

As it turned out, when Spencer finally scrambled into the fort at Rhosgobel and relinquished the envelope to the panting Aaron, flopping back onto the mat, Aaron definitely didn’t mind. What Spencer had done was _awesome_.

“I didn’t know if you’d like it,” Spencer said shyly, tucking his chin on his knees and picking at his sneakers. Aaron flipped the pages, hungrily devouring the words written in his friend’s scratchy handwriting. “If you don’t, we can…”

“I love it,” Aaron replied, looking up and meeting the other boy’s gaze. He didn’t _hug_ , boys didn’t do stuff like that, but he wanted to. He put that into his expression, how much this meant, and saw Spencer nod as though he understood. “I really do. Can we keep doing this?”

“Of course. Why would we ever stop?”


	10. Round-Robin Start

_Dear Spencer_

_~~Wish you were here.~~ _

_~~I don’t know how to do th~~ _

_~~It’s so boring~~ _

_I made something to show you. Had a lot of time to work on it. What do you think?_

_From Aaron H_

_P.S I don’t have a proper title yet but this is it so far. It’s not very good yet._

 

The boy no one took notice of

He didn’t have a name because he didn’t need one. His friends didn’t need names, and no one else knew him. There was a family somewhere in the house he lived in. Once they might have knew him but that was a long time ago and before the magic.

And he was alone but he wasn’t lonely. That was because of his magic. He heard the things no one took notice of. Not just heard them, but talked to them too. He first noticed when he was little and playing in the bath with a toy.

The toy was boring so he looked around for something fun. The faucet was shiny and shaped like a mouth. He lay on the water until it bubbled around his ears, looked up into that drippy mouth and said “hello.”

“Hello” said the spout back. It was surprised because no one had ever spoken to it. No one really takes any notice of a faucet, not unless it’s broke, and this one was old and built proper and had never broken before. “Who are you?”

And the boy might have answered, but he doesn’t remember now what he said.

He remembered asking “what do you do?” He remembered the spout saying in a wet kind of voice, like talking from down a pipe “I make water” and showing him by spraying a big fountain of water across the room. And that was interesting and fun so after that the boy asked everything what it did. Almost everything answered.

“We hold whole worlds on our shelves” said the bookshelves. The books said nothing because everyone takes notice of books. The lights wouldn’t answer him either.

“We open” said the doors and did. “And close” they said swinging shut again “wee!” They were silly so the boy ignored them. He asked everything and had to search real hard to find a thing he didn’t know what its purpose was.

He went to the attic and found nothing except a light that pretended it couldn’t hear him, a door just as silly as the others, and a window. A cracked and dirty window with glass that was hard to see through.

“What do YOU do?” asked the boy, pressing his hand against the pane.

And the glass groaned, because it was old old old, older than the house even, and crunched out a voice that sounded like a cough “I hide things.”

The boy was confused. “You’re a window” he said. “Windows don’t hide things. They show things.”

“Not me” said the old window. “There’s a secret on my other side.”

“Hmm” said the boy. He was curious and liked secrets. “Can I see?”

The light whispered “don’t show him,” because the light wasn’t really very nice. The door swung around and said “wheeee.” The window thought for a very long time about what the boy had asked him. “Okay” it said and the boy pressed his nose against it expecting to see the outside.

A girl looked back. She looked surprised.

“Who are you?” asked the boy just as surprised, but the girl didn’t answer. She just tapped on the glass where his nose was pressed and made a silly scrunchy face when he jumped.

“She’s a secret” said the window, and didn’t say anymore.

And the boy waited a long time, but it never really spoke again.

 

_This is so cool! I spent AGES writing up this whole thing asking all about the window and the lights and the magic and this boy?!? but then instead I did this. If you don’t like it, just ignore it._

_Spencer. R_

 

“Who are you?” she asked the boy in the window. The boy opened his mouth in a round _O_ of surprise, as though _he_ was the one startled to find a flying boy at her window, and said nothing. She shouldn’t have been surprised, really. The window was never helpful at explaining things. Not even after all these years—had it been years? It sure felt like it—of trying to explain to the silly, flimsy thing _how_ to explain things. “Are you lost as well?”

She was lost, she thought. This was the place of the lost. Someone a long time ago had put her aside, like keys or a sock, and forgotten to pick her up again. She didn’t really mind. This place was nice, dusty and quiet and smelt a little like books, and it was peaceful. Lots of people seemed to lose books, so she just read those and wondered if she was missed, somewhere.

The boy shrugged and sat down, peering at her through the pane. She sat too. They sat like that for a long time, until their knees were achy and her bum hurt from the wood, and still he watched her as though she was a puzzle he was waiting to be handed the answer to.

“Well, you’re not going to learn about me by sitting there,” she told him, and looked about for something to write with. There were always pens here. Easily lost, pens were. Thankfully a lot easier lost than babies. She couldn’t imagine what she’d do if another _her_ rocked up. “I hope you can read.” And she wrote, _You’re making my window all smudgy,_ on a piece of paper, and pushed it against the pane.

The boy stared, his face wrinkled and thoughtful, and then he ran away. When he came back, he had a notepad, and he smiled all silly as he held up, _What do you do?_ on a piece of paper.

What an odd thing to ask, she thought.

_I don’t do anything. I just am._

This seemed to confuse him. _Nothing just is_ , he wrote slowly and painfully, and she was so bored waiting for him to finish writing she thought she might explode with the boredom. _Everything does something._

_I don’t._

And that seemed to confuse him very much. _I bet you do_ , he wrote, and that took forever as well. _We just need to work out what it is._

_Okay,_ she wrote, after thinking for a bit, because it sounded _interesting_ at least. _But what’s your name?_

_I don’t have one._

Now _that_ was weird. Everything had names. Even the lost things. Even _she_ had a name, and she thought of it proudly as he slowly bent over his notepad and scratched out one more message. She’d found her own name because everything needed a name—read book after book until she found on that she liked the shape and sound of, and spent ages saying it so she knew how it felt in her mouth.

_Do you have a name?_ he’d written, the writing all wobbly and uncertain, like he wasn’t sure anymore. She nodded. _What is it?_

And she wrote back in BIG letters so he knew how important it was to have a name.

**_HALCYON_ **


	11. Halcyon - July, 1994

“How does the girl know how to read?” Aaron asked, followed by, “Stop buying all the houses. There’s only so many on the board.”

“I know,” Spencer said with a smug smile, putting two more houses down. “Thirty-two, in fact. And the official rules of Monopoly state that only those houses are able to be in play. Which means I’m going to _win_. And why wouldn’t she be able to read?”

Spencer, Aaron was finding, was the kind of person who made Monopoly aggravating by immediately taking the lead and not letting the other person catch up. He was a weird mix of smug and embarrassed by his easy win, and it was annoying as shit.

“That’s stupid,” Aaron complained. “And who taught her to read? She’s been lost since she was a baby.” A bug crawled across the board, resting on the chance cards, and he brushed it away along with stray sticks from the breeze blowing cheekily through Rhosgobel.

Spencer blinked, pausing from carefully making sure every one of his many property cards was aligned perfectly with the other and looking oddly at Aaron. “What do you mean? She taught herself.” By his hand rested the notebook, the pages bulging from the amount of flipping through them they’d done the past few weeks busily planning the rest of their story out.

“You can’t just teach yourself to read.” Aaron paused. You couldn’t, could you? Someone had to teach you. Like Sean did to him, back when they were little and he was still a good brother. “That’s not how it works.”

“I did.” Spencer inched around to rest his knees, leaning forward onto them. “So she could have. We can change the rules? Every time one of us buys a house, the other has to… ask a question. And if they get it wrong, they don’t get to buy the house.”

The dice clattered as Aaron rolled them. “That’s not fair. You know _everything._ And you can’t just change rules. They’re not rules if people can go around changing them just because they want to.” The wind blew harder, sending fives flying into the air and the two of them scurrying to save them from wafting through the fence and down into the quarry. Overhead, there was a low, rumbling _boom_ that echoed and rolled.

“You can change rules if they’re not good rules,” Spencer argued. He was standing, neck craned back watching the dark clouds moving towards them, fistfuls of the money in his hands. Fast raindrops began to fall around them, splattering on the wide lenses of his glasses, and he didn’t even blink. Scrambling to pack the game up, Aaron watched him carefully. For a kid half-scared of _everything_ , he seemed entirely fearless of the storm.

“Do you like storms?” he asked curiously, shutting the box, nudging it into the safety of the fort, and moving to stand next to his friend, their shoulders brushing together. The wind changed, turning heavy and scented with rain, blowing the fat raindrops back against them and turning them into a cold kind of mist.

“I love them,” Spencer said, grinning. “They’re… exhilarating.”

Aaron nodded, watching the wind pick up and shake the fence. “Hey, come on,” he said suddenly, feeling reckless. If Spencer could stand there and face a storm without fear, maybe he could face something else he was scared of too. The fence jumped with the wind, the supports groaning, chain-links ratting in the growing gale.

And if Spencer could stop being scared… maybe Aaron could too.

“What are you…” Spencer trailed off with an _eep_ that was ripped away by the wind as Aaron grabbed his hand and tugged him towards the fence. “I don’t think—this is _dumb_ , what are you—no, no, no—”

Letting go, Aaron leapt onto the fence, sneakers slipping and tipping him forward as the wind tossed him up easily, hair whipping into his eyes. He wouldn’t drag his friend up here if he didn’t want to come. It had to be his choice. But, moving further out onto the fence, far enough that the edge was close and sharply outlined by the choppy blue water below, Aaron looked down and down at the endless descent and felt _alive_.

“Aaron!” yelled Spencer from behind him, his voice thin and shrill, almost impossible to make out in the rush of blood in Aaron’s ears adding to the clamour of the wind and the fence. Aaron stared down at that drop, crouched, one hand threaded through the links as it buckled and bounced and tried to send him rolling one way or the other. He grinned, giddy, wild, and shouted something back that might have been _I’m fine_ or maybe it was _come look at this_ or maybe it was even just a mindless shout of living and knowing he was one strong gust from free fall.

The fence bent oddly. Aaron lurched, grabbing at the edge, and turned. Spencer inched closer, crawling on his knees with his fingers white around the wiring, eyes huge and reflecting the sky behind him. There was a long, frozen moment as the wind dropped and they did nothing but stare breathlessly at each other.

Aaron held out his hand. “I won’t let you fall,” he promised, because he wouldn’t and this part of the fence was easy to sit on. Their combined weight held it down, neither would roll to the edge, and they were as safe as they were anywhere, really. “I’ll keep you safe, Spence. I promise.”

Spencer eyed the hand in front of his face. Sucked in a breath through his teeth. Nodded.

And took it. His hand was clammy with sweat, trembling, his fingers tightly threading through Aaron’s as he pulled himself closer, tucking himself tight against Aaron’s side as rain began to hammer around them in a thick grey haze.

If they looked down, they could feel the fence but not see it, hidden against the grey and grey of the slate and water below. They were floating. Suspended in the air, looking down at their end, and Aaron heard Spencer whisper a quiet, “Wow. It’s like… flying.”

“Wow,” Aaron agreed, squeezing his hand. “Wonder what it looks like when the _real_ storms blow in. Lightning and everything.”

Spencer cocked his head, hair flat to his face and eyes bright with fear and excitement. “There’s going to be a big one next week,” he shouted over the wind and the rain. “We… could find out?”

Aaron nodded, shivering at the thought, standing and wobbling his way down to firm ground again as the wind turned cold and reminded them their clothes were _soaked_. Not once did his fingers slip, and not once did they fall. He held them steady. He’d promised, after all.


	12. Halcyon - August, 1994

The storm came as promised. It hit in the night time, but they had a plan. Aaron slipped into Sean’s room, silent on his socked feet, slid open the window that Sean had kept oiled and quiet until the night he’d done just the same and never come back, and climbed down the garage in the pouring rain. Shoes on, his headlight covered over, he biked into the night without looking back, a grin splitting his face and heart hammering with the thrill of being _disobedient._

If his mom found out… if his _dad_ found out.

But they wouldn’t, and he felt like shrieking to the wind a thank you for hiding him, to Spencer for planning this, to the world for offering them this last adventure. The night was dark, made darker by the rain, and he dismounted earlier than he would usually, mindful of Spencer’s warnings that his arm would break a lot easier for a while if he took a tumble.

Spencer was late, tugging open the door of Rhosgobel and scrambling in, shaking his head to shed water like a wet dog. “Hi,” he breathed, panting, edging around the crate in a flurry of awkward knees and joining Aaron on the fence where he was laying belly-down, staring at the black below. “Any trouble getting out?”

“Nah,” Aaron said smugly, making room for his friend as he joined him. The quarry flashed, lighting up like day for a split second and making them both blink. The world cracked overhead as the thunder followed, deafeningly loud. “Woah! Look at that one!”

The wind below was cold but they were warm, pressed together, Spencer rambling about storms and Aaron listening intently, counting the time between thunder rolls in his head. On the crate behind them, lit by the water-light, the notebook stood proudly with their completed story within. Spencer had painstakingly gone over Aaron’s grammar, explaining each mistake with infinite patience. School in two and a half weeks, and Aaron was eager to show Mr. Carmody what they’d achieved. He was _proud_ of what they’d made. It was a heady thing, making something from nothing.

What felt like hours later, Spencer yawned, his jaw popping. The storm was quietening down, leaving a hushed, wet silence over the world, broken only by the lap of water below them and the drip of leaves shedding raindrops onto the thirsty ground. Aaron flicked him. Their wet clothes were drying as the humidity returned, Spencer’s hair frizzing ridiculously and glasses going foggy. Twitching away from the flick, Spencer scowled at him.

So he did it again.

“Hey, oi,” Spencer yelped, rolling to the side and off the fence, “Grow up, Aaron!”

“I am grown up,” Aaron countered, tensing and waiting for Spencer to drop his guard before leaping and crashing into him, hitting the side of the fort with two muffled _oomfs_ and squeals as the fort responded by dumping all the water collecting on the roof onto their heads. “The notebook!”

They wrestled, both trying to grab for it, Aaron copping a bony elbow to the chest and puffing as Spencer grabbed it and rolled away evasively. “It’s okay,” he said, flipping it open. “None of the water—are you alright? Oh, did I hurt you?”

“No,” wheezed Aaron, hands to his chest and blinking tears of surprise from his eyes. “Not a. Shrimpy kid. Like you. Urgh.” He coughed. “At least you’re getting better at defending yourself.”

Spencer flopped back down, expression guilty. “Not on purpose, though. I didn’t mean to elbow you.” From guilt, his face shifted to something like pride. “I _did_ use what you told me though. I got away.”

“Oh?” Kicking dirt over the puddle that had collected, Aaron went and sat across from him, yawning as well, aware their night should probably end soon. “How so?”

A shy shrug. “Some girl… lured me out to the football field. I shouldn’t have gone. It was _dumb_ of me. They tried to… tie me up. And stuff. But I kicked them and got away, and ran. Just like you showed me.”

Aaron’s throat was dry, his heart twisting painfully in his chest at the knowledge that if Spence was admitting to this, there was probably tons he wasn’t admitting to. That was how he did things. Anything to avoid upsetting people, and it was _frustrating_. If he needed help, he needed to _ask_ , not hide his hurts away from the world to keep everyone else safe. “Why did you go out there?” he snapped, because it was easier to be angrier at Spence for putting himself in danger than it was to funnel that hate towards these nameless-faceless teenagers.

Silence. Spencer’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes locked on the ground and fingers running gently along the cover of the notebook, trembling against the cardboard. “She’s really pretty,” he said finally, flushing bright red and cringing away, his voice thick with shame. “The girl. I… don’t know. I just… hoped. Maybe she was different, you know?”

The heart twisting was gone and replaced with something else. Something deep in his belly, and uncomfortably heavy. Like the feeling that came with fighting with a friend or seeing something awful. Knowing there was no going back. “Maybe save the pretty girls until you’re big enough to fight back,” he said finally, punching his friend’s thin arm and ignoring his _hey_ of complaint. “At _least_ twelve.”

Spencer smirked in reply. “So, next month?” he teased, and Aaron twitched with surprise. Somehow, Spence seemed eternally ten. “You ever going to tell me your birthday?”

“No,” he said automatically. The rain was gone now, the night muggy and closer to morning. Both their eyes were red, his own gritty and sore, and it was probably time to stumble home. “But. If it helps, I’m thirteen this year. So I _am_ older than you.”

Spencer smiled. “Still just a kid though,” he said cheekily, and Aaron punched him again.

He already missed the storm.

He already missed him.


	13. Epistolary, 1994-95

[Page 7 of 21]

—I haven’t really had much time to do anything recently. It’s taken me almost two weeks just to write this much! I’m sorry. Mom’s not been well.

I’m trying to help out more around the house, clean and stuff, but it’s a lot more complicated than I thought. Not so much the cleaning, that’s really easy and kind of peaceful, but I tried cooking the other day and almost set the kitchen on fire. It was really bad. ~~The fire alarm freaked Mom out~~ I just really don’t want to do that again. So we’ve mostly been eating toast, it’s all I really know how to make. I thought cooking would be EASY. Like chemistry, but with food, but all the recipe books I get are REALLY complicated and have all these expensive ingredients. I was trying to get this spice that one book said I needed for soup—I mean, how hard could soup be?!?—and it was RIGHT at the top of the shelf when I went to the supermarket, and I knocked down everything trying to reach for it and the cashier was so mad. ~~She said she was going to~~

Anyway, you asked what Halcyon would be scared of? The DARK for sure. The dark is when things get lost, after all, and I bet a lot of scary things show up in her attic in the dark. What about when people lose fears? Do you think those fears go there? Maybe there’s a box in her attic somewhere that growls and grumbles and that’s where everything scary goes. What would happen if that box opened? I bet it would be awful—

 

* * *

 

**INTERNAL MEMO 10/24/1994**

**TO:** Penny Arthur

**FROM:** Adam Carmody

**TOPIC LINE:** A thing

I might have done a thing.

**1 ATTACHMENT**

 

**INTERNAL MEMO 10/24/1994**

**TO:** Adam Carmody

**FROM:** Penny Arthur

**TOPIC LINE:** Re: A thing

Did you tell Aaron you did this?!?! When do you find out?! Adam!

 

**INTERNAL MEMO 10/24/1994**

**TO:** Adam Carmody

**FROM:** Penny Arthur

**TOPIC LINE:** Re: A thing

Wait, what is this? Did he write this?

 

**INTERNAL MEMO 10/24/1994**

**TO:** Penny Arthur

**FROM:** Adam Carmody

**TOPIC LINE:** Re: A thing

No and next month. Birthday surprise? And yeah. Him and Spencer. It’s astoundingly good.

 

**INTERNAL MEMO 10/24/1994**

**TO:** Adam Carmody

**FROM:** Penny Arthur

**TOPIC LINE:** Re: A thing

It IS really good. Wow. They have a real chance, don’t they?

 

**INTERNAL MEMO 10/24/1994**

**TO:** Penny Arthur

**FROM:** Adam Carmody

**TOPIC LINE:** Re: A thing

They do.

 

* * *

 

Dear Spencer.

So, a box of lost fears is probably like… the best idea **ever**. How do you come up with this stuff?? I picture there’s like this switch in your brain labelled ‘turn on for weird/awesome stuff’ and when you press it, all these ~~conveying convoy~~ conveyir belts start going. What kind of fears would go in there? Spiders, for sure. Tons of people are scared of spiders. Maybe inside the box is just darkness and the sound of things moving around? That would scare even me I think.

I found something in a box in our attic, my gran’s old stuff, and I’m sending it to you with this letter. It’s a recipe for this tuna stuff she used to make us. Real simple, you just gotta cook pasta and the tuna stuff. Let me know how it goes, okay?

School is really really good. I have Mr. Turner again, which is great since it’s my last year here before high school and I didn’t really want a new teacher. He’s a lot cooler than I first thought. Gives me new books and stuff to read and then lets me write about them instead of the lame ones that have all kissing stuff in them. Why would anyone want to read about kissing instead of dragons??

I made some actual friends! I mean, I have friends at school but not like YOU friends. I guess even these guys aren’t really like you. I don’t have anything like Rhosgobel with these friends, and I don’t feel right talking to them about stuff, although Jessica is real nice. You’d like her, I think. She’s the only one I told about you and she says you sound real cool! I didn’t know if you’d be okay with me talking about you to them but its kind of hard not to—how do you not talk about your best friend!?

I have to go, I’m sorry this letter is so short! I’ll write letters like you one day. Mr. Turner gives so much homework now, and he says high school is going to be even worse, if that’s even possible. I bet high school gives homework in the summer too. But that will be okay, because you can help me then!

Your friend, Aaron. H.

PS. Home is good. Dad’s drinking a lot now so he sleeps all the time. I don’t think I’ve even SEEN him for a week or so. Mom’s… happier? She smiled the other day. I thought you’d like knowing that.

PPS. I forgot to say, they’re making me see this lady at school—she’s like a counsellor but not? Mr. Carmody says it’s because of the people who come visit my house sometime. She’s nice, but makes me do really weird stuff like colour in pictures of rocks with faces on them in ‘the colour that you feel suits it’. What??? And yesterday they had Mom and Dad there too??

PPS. I asked her and she says she’s a ‘picholigist’ which I looked up and means she knows all about brains and thoughts. Think she knows what I’m thinking?? That’s WEIRD.

PPPS. Happy birthday for last week!!! You’re twelve now! It feels a lot like being eleven, doesn’t it?

 

* * *

 

Adam Carmody

Bennet Elementary School

Manassas, VA, 20110

November 07, 1994

 

To Mr. Carmody,

We are pleased to inform you that your student’s submission to our Young Writer’s Award has made it through to the final stage of judging. Final rankings will be released on the 1st of December, 1994, and the winner will have their story run through a number of national publications as a part of the Young Writer’s Week in mid-January, 1995. Congratulations, and we wish you both the best of luck!

Best regards, Annie Hewett

New York Young Writers Awards, 1994

 

* * *

 

SPENCER.

LOOK AT THIS. LOOK LOOK LOOK LOOK

MR. CARMODY PUT OUR STORY IN A COMPETITION. WE COULD WIN!!!!!

I HOPE YOU GET THIS BEFORE YOU WRITE BACK

YOUR FREAKING OUT FRIEND, AARON H

 

* * *

 

**Confidential Psychological Report [draft]**

**[for professional use only]**

**Name:** Aaron James Hotchner

**Birthdate:** November 2nd, 1981

**Age:** 13

**Grade:** Seventh (current)

**School:** Bennet Elementary School, Manassas, VA

**Examiner:** Dr. Michael Hewitt, Child Protective Services

**Background:**

  * Multiple reports made through years 1991-current year suspect physical abuse in home
  * One hospitalization during this time (report made by attending)
  * Seven reports made from faculty at school—evidence enclosed
  * Older brother [Sean Lewis Hotchner]. Currently listed as missing since 1991 [total of twenty-two reports made suspect physical abuse with Sean]. Parents report runaway.
  * Total of six hospitalizations with Sean



**Evaluation:**

To be assessed using notes from session. Notable:

  * Mother [M] and Father [F] both attended session along with [A]. M made frequent references to A in a positive manner, affect withdrawn when F spoke. F evasive and aggressive, nil references to A, seemed unaware of A’s scholastic abilities.
  * When alone with F, A shows [withdrawal, fear responses, adverse stress]. This session cut short as A’s distress was considered too pronounced for session to continue
  * When alone with M, A shows [guarding, protective behaviours]. Often spoke over M in manner designed to quieten her. Attempt at mimicry from F or concern for retaliation if M misspoke? Assertive with M, attempts at manipulation.
  * A evasive, redirect conversation towards topics other than his home and self, turning questions back upon examiner. Was open about hobbies—writing, reading [fantasy as an escape?]
  * When examiner prompted M to initiate an offer of physical affection upon returning to the room, comfort was returned by A but his demeanour suggested discomfort. F was similarly prompted, but the initiation of comfort was rebuffed by A before A became too distressed to continue. Session ended here.



**Conclusion:**

  1. How seriously has the child's psychological well-being been affected? 
    1. TBA
  2. What therapeutic interventions would be recommended to assist the child? 
    1. TBA
  3. Can the parent(s) be successfully treated to prevent harm to the child in the future? If so, how? If not, why not? 
    1. TBA
  4. What would be the psychological effect upon the child if returned to the parent(s)? 
    1. N/A child under parental home care
  5. **What would be the psychological effect upon the child if separated from the parents or if parental rights are terminated?**
    1. TBA



 

* * *

 

Dear Aaron,

… psychologists aren’t mind readers. But I did a WHOLE bunch of reading on them because I was curious after your last letter, and I found out that some are basically like that?! They can read behaviour and basically know you from that—they’re called profilers and it’s a kinda new thing the FBI is doing. I’ve done TONS of reading on them now, and they’re really, really interesting. I started reading a bunch about serial killers too, like this one guy who took…

[page 1 of 35]

 

* * *

 

AARON I GOT YOUR LETTER THE DAY AFTER I SENT THE LAST ONE, DID THEY REALLY DO THAT? DO YOU THINK WE’RE GOING TO WIN? I’m not sure it’s THAT good but it might be? I want to tell Mom but I don’t in case we don’t win, what do I do???

EXCITED TOO, SPENCER R.

 

* * *

 

Adam Carmody

Bennet Elementary School

Manassas, VA, 20110

December 01, 1994

 

To Mr. Carmody,

We are pleased to inform you that your student’s submission to our Young Writer’s Award has come second! Both AARON and SPENCER will have their story published in the Young Writer’s Week lift-out in the New York Times, in our annual print magazine, and in other publications still to be finalized. Copies will be sent to you to give to your student/s and their family, as well as distribute around your school if you choose.

Well done and congratulations to SPENCER and AARON!

Best regards, Annie Hewett

New York Young Writers Awards, 1994

 

* * *

 

SPENCE. WE WON WE WON WE WON WE WON LOOK AT THIS WE WON (SECOND, BUT SAME THING). WE’RE GONNA BE IN A NEWSPAPER, HOW COOL IS THAT!?!?! WHY DO LETTERS HAVE TO TAKE SO LONG I WANT TO TELL YOU NOW!!!!

HURRY UP AND GET THIS WE WON

AARON

 

_Hi Spencer. Adam Carmody here, Aaron’s school counsellor. Just a quick note to say well done with this! This is a truly impressive story you and Aaron have written here, and you should be very, very proud. Congratulations!_

 

* * *

 

Dear Aaron,

I know you’re probably going to ignore this, but my friend showed me this thing in the paper and asked if I was related to you. I didn’t even know you wrote, kiddo. I read it and it’s really, really cool, way better than I could do. I tried to ring but Dad hung up on me, so I’m sending this to your school. Hopefully you get it.

Look, I know you’re probably real pissed off at me still but you’re my brother and I saw this and… well, I don’t want Dad to get between us. I never ran away from you or from Mom. Just him. I couldn’t do it anymore, you know?? I was barely seventeen and I had to look after you and look after Mom and… I’m just not that kind of person. I let people down.

I let you down and I’m sorry. I put a stamp in for you. If you reply, I’ll come see you, okay? In secret. We don’t have to tell Dad. I know you never got it like I did. That’s why I ran—you’re their favourite. You’re _safe_. You don’t know what it’s like to be scared all the time. I just want you to understand why I ran away.

Please don’t ignore this?

Sean.


	14. Halcyon - June, 1995

Spencer was back for a week before it happened. He’d been quiet. Withdrawn. Aaron rambled happily about their story, about the fort, about all the plans he had to expand it in the future. They could make a Mordor across the quarry, right where they’d just be able to see it, make a Shire in the foothills, all _kinds_ of things. And Spencer trudged after him, head down and sneakers dusty, humming non-committedly to every suggestion Aaron presented, even as they got more and more desperate as he tried to stave off the inevitable. It hung over them, something awful.

Aaron knew all about something awful. It was the beer on his dad’s breath. It was a new bruise on Mom’s cheek. It was coming home to the silent waiting hush. It was walking upstairs and noting Sean wasn’t there.

It was Sean never coming home.

And it was Spencer’s face right now.

“Okay, what is it?” Aaron asked finally, turning and facing his friend. They were just inside Rhosgobel. It wasn’t even hot yet. Summer hadn’t even _started_. His voice whined, his breath catching. They weren’t done having fun yet. They weren’t _done_ yet. “Come on. Tell me!”

Spencer closed his eyes, tilting his chin down, a glimmer of hazel flickering between slightly open lids as he looked towards the fort. The fort they’d found they barely fit in anymore. Aaron had giggled, folding his legs up. Spencer had merely smiled tightly and said… nothing.

“I finished school,” he said finally, with a shrug, and Aaron hated him for a heartbeat. Hated his brain. What good was being _smart_ when it made you miserable. What good was being smart when it… “I start college this year.”

When it sent you away from the one person who needed you most. More than anything.

More than he’d known.

“Where to?” Aaron asked numbly. College? At thirteen, barely? They’d eat him alive. And no number of letters could protect him there, no matter how much Aaron wanted to.

“MIT.” Spencer didn’t sound excited. “They’ve been talking to Mom and I since last year. I won’t… I won’t be coming back.”

“Massachusetts? That’s hours away.” Aaron’s head whirled. What… what was he saying?

“Closer than Nevada…” Spencer stepped closer. “Aaron, I don’t… I’m sorry. I. Should have mentioned earlier, I didn’t know how and… time just went so _fast_. We were having so much fun and all I looked forward to were there summers… I thought we had more. It’s okay, I understand if you…”

“If I what?” Aaron was sharper than he’d intended, anger and misery still burning in his gut and making his fists clench. Spencer huddled back, slouching to hide the height he’d started to gain. It left him looking ungainly, the pinched kind of skinny of a boy growing too quick without enough to fuel it. Aaron immediately regretted his tone. Didn’t know how to show it. Settled for glaring at the ground between them.

The reply was a choked whisper. “If you don’t want to be friends anymore…”

“Of course I do.” Aaron heaved in a breath that _hurt_ on the way down. “This doesn’t change anything. We’ve spent more time being far away than we have close. We’ll just… keep doing what we’re doing.”

There was a hopeful kind of light sparking on Spencer’s thin face. “You mean that?” he said, half a smile tugging at his mouth. “Still friends? Even… after all this is over?” He gestured around as the fort that suddenly didn’t seem quite as magical, quite as timeless. The planks along the side were warped, buckled with the heat, the branch roof drooping with the leaves long lost. The door hung crooked, the fence sagged.

“We’ll always have Rhosgobel,” Aaron murmured, not really paying attention now. The door swayed slightly in the wind, a beetle on the corner flicking its wings with a _whurr_. They would. This. They would have this. Long after Rhosgobel rotted and Spencer moved on to his future and Aaron…

Aaron stayed here. With his dad and his beery breath and the something awful.

“Aaron?” A touch on his arm. Spencer had moved closer, his fingers curling warm and soothing around the crook of Aaron’s elbow. “You don’t look well. Are you sick?”

“I’m fine,” Aaron said, his voice distant through a buzzing in his ears. Rhosgobel looked grey. Wan. Tired. “I want to go home.”

“Okay.” The hand on his arm dropped away, leaving his skin cold. “Okay. You’re coming back though?”

Aaron stumbled away, sneakers skidding on the loose rock. He didn’t look back. “Yeah, of course. Of course. Seeya soon. Sometime.”

“Sometime?”

Aaron didn’t reply.


	15. Halcyon - July, 1995

His friends were chattering loudly, and Aaron stared moodily into the depths of the milkshake he’d bought, tasted, and immediately regretted. It was thick, sickly, overly sugared, and reminded him painfully of…

“Hey, Aaron,” Jessica said suddenly, leaning back and peering past him. “That kid just looked at you. The one in the polo.” Aaron looked up automatically and found himself trying to pick out one navy blue polo from another of the small group clustered on the street, some peering into shop windows, some talking amongst themselves, one standing alone…

One who looked away as soon as they made eye-contact, sidling back into the group to try and avoid being seen. The distance between them lingered. The weeks between them lingered. Aaron hadn’t gone back to Rhosgobel. He just…

Couldn’t. Maybe if he didn’t go back, he wouldn’t miss him as much. But, as soon as he saw him standing across the street, looking small and miserable and forgotten, he knew it was probably a false hope. And stood.

“Where are you going?” Jessica asked. The others turned to look at him, curious.

“I’ve got someone I want you all to meet,” he said, probably recklessly, and strode across the road towards Spencer. The SEP kids all turned to stare, clustering closer, an identical look of mistrust on their faces. Only Spencer’s face wasn’t wary, just sad. “Hi, Spence.”

“Hey, Aaron.” It was mumbled. The others seemed to relax as one, moving away, not one looking back. Guilt lit in Aaron’s belly. Spencer had spent every moment of every holiday with him… he’d never even had the chance to connect with the kids at his group, and then Aaron had gone and just… left him. In anger. It had been _wrong_.

Wrong, and he didn’t know how to make it right.

“Want to hang out?” he asked stiffly. The words felt odd. They’d never had to _ask_ before.

Hazel eyes flickered up to meet his. Silence.

A nod.

Aaron smiled shakily and turned to walk back, hearing an uncomfortable patter of sneakers behind him as Spencer followed. “Guys, this is Spencer,” he said, stepping aside so they could see him. “My… my best friend.”

It might have been awkward. It probably would have been awkward. It _absolutely_ would have been awkward, if it wasn’t for Jessica.

“Hi, Spencer,” she said, beaming at his shy friend. The kind of smile you couldn’t help but smile back at, because it was warm and real and excited. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

And it went okay.

 

* * *

 

He woke that night to a rolling echo of distant thunder, and a rock on his window.

His backyard was dark, glinting wetly, and there was a tiny figure darting around nervously on the grass. _What,_ Aaron thought, blinking sleepily, and then it clicked. His stomach jumped, a smile sneaking onto his face, and he waved and ducked away from the window, dressing in the blink of an eye and padding quietly through to Sean’s room and out the window.

“What are you _doing_?” he breathed, slipping through the darkness and coming out next to his heavily breathing friend. He’d clearly been running, eyes bright behind his thick glasses and hair wild from the rain and the wind.

“One last storm?” Spencer asked, grinning anxiously and looking up at the dark sky.

Aaron shivered as though cold, despite the thick heat pushing down on them. Looked at the sky. Looked at his friend. “It’s not gonna be our last,” he promised, and picked up his bike. “Come on. Let’s go.”

The something awful seemed distant tonight. No matter how much the little voice in the back of Aaron’s mind kept pointing out that it was there, existing, looming so close in the future, it was blown away by the whip of the wind through their hair as they biked up to the quarry; held back by Spencer’s arms around his waist from where they were doubling; quietened by their muffled laughter as the bike wobbled and Aaron swore at it.

They crawled into the fort, still laughing, because they _really_ didn’t fit anymore. Laying on the fencing was an exercise in Tetris, and they ended up pressed awkwardly together with their knees and elbows knocking. The storm was getting louder, the rain beginning to sheet down around them and work its way through the widening cracks in the battered fort, and Spencer lay on his back and used his toes to poke at the holes. Aaron lay on his stomach, looking down into the quarry and thinking of very little at all.

“I saw the letter,” Spencer said suddenly, and Aaron jolted and turned his face to the side, cheek against the fence, studying him in the uneven glow of the water-light. “From your brother. I didn’t mean to—it was in the notebook and it fell out, and I… read too fast. I’m sorry.”

It was a sick reminder of something he hadn’t been able to face yet. Chest tight, he curled into the fence, and hummed softly, the noise taken by the wind. “It’s nothing. Just Sean being… Sean. If he wanted to be brothers, why did he leave?” The bitterness that crept in was impossible to hide.

Spencer was quiet. He said something inaudible in the sound of the storm, and Aaron looked oddly at him. Spencer curled closer, breath warm and sweet and eyes intent. “Well, that’s not totally fair,” he said, frowning, and Aaron could see the rim of his glasses digging into his face with the awkward angle he was lying at. “Sometimes… sometimes people have to leave the people they love for their own good. Like… like me leaving Mom to come here. Or Sean running… away.”

“Or your dad?” Aaron said, and it was mean but Spencer didn’t seem to be hurt by it.

“Maybe. And maybe like… me. Leaving you. I don’t want to, but I can’t not. It’s a reasonable reaction to an unreasonable situation. And leaving doesn’t mean forever.”

“You saying I should reply?” Aaron leaned back, watching the moonlight appear for a moment as the clouds scurried across the sky.

“Only if you want to. I’m really just probably seeking some kind of forgiveness for myself.” Spencer’s voice was getting quiet again. Aaron swallowed, leaned back, and it was his turn to reach forward and curl his fingers around his friend’s arm, holding him tight. Ignoring the way his heart hammered at the touch, unused to this kind of proximity without a threat behind it.

“Nothing to forgive,” he said, and that was when the storm hit and made conversation impossible. Spencer nodded, eyes shadowed, and tilted his head back to watch the lightning fork across the black. Aaron watched too, and as the night crept on to another last morning, he closed his eyes and wondered if they’d have this again…

…and opened them to silence. Silence and something awful hidden within it.

Spencer was a heavy, warm weight on his chest, head pillowed against his arm and glasses askew, breathing deeply. Fast asleep. The storm was gone. Rhosgobel dripped with rain. The quarry hummed with the slap of waves below from the still whistling winds.

He didn’t know; didn’t know why his heart was choking in his chest, didn’t know why his throat was dry and his mouth opened as though to cry out in fear, didn’t know why his limbs were rigid with the terror of something coming. Didn’t know why, until he did.

“Aaron!” A shout. A familiar shout. An angry shout. _Dad_. “Where the fuck _are_ you?” The world narrowed to that voice, that anger. Coming closer. He’d find them. He’d find him. Find Spencer. Find Rhosgobel. Find _everything_.

_No!_

Aaron bolted upright, ignoring Spencer’s sharp noise of shock, knocking the crate over, the water bottle, fumbling for the light and the door and ripping it open, bursting into the weak pre-dawn light. _Run run run runrunrunrunrun_ like a frightened mouse, and he lurched towards the alcove exit as another shout echoed around them—

A weight hit him and he went down with a strangled scream that never sounded, because there was a hand around his mouth, another hand pressing on his back and forcing him to the ground, a warm, heavy body, laid against his back and tremoring convulsively. “Don’t,” Spencer breathed, his voice thin. “Don’t shout. He can’t find us here. Shh.” Aaron fought him. In desperate, jerky moves, he fought to get away, didn’t Spencer realize he was in _danger_ ; Aaron had to protect him, protect this place, get _away_. But Spencer held firm, keeping the upper hand, and the voice began to grow distant. There was no air. No air and the ground was cutting into his cheek, his chest heaving, his arms tingling, disconnected. Spencer slid away, hitting the ground with a thump, panting raggedly. “I think he’s—Aaron?”

Aaron sat up, the fear draining away with the silence and leaving nothing but exhaustion and a sick, painful misery. He had to go home. He had nowhere else to go. Go home to that. Tried to breathe and his lungs choked. Tried to move his arms to wrap them around himself, and they sluggishly failed to listen. Tried not to cry.

Cried helplessly.

Arms around him, tugging him close, and he pressed his face against his best friend’s chest and sobbed wordlessly until the dawn wasn’t a suggestion anymore, but a guarantee, and there was no coming back from this.


	16. Halcyon - August, 1995

That summer passed the fastest of all. On the last day, they sat at Rhosgobel and not all the magic was gone.

“Come on then,” Aaron goaded him, nudging Spencer’s foot with his own. Spencer glanced up at him, his pen pausing on the notepad he was scrawling on, eyes lingering on the bruise that was fading yellow across Aaron’s mouth. It made talking hard, but that didn’t stop him. “I know you’ve got something all poetic and gay hidden up in that brain of yours to mark the occasion.”

Spencer hummed, pen moving in lazy circles as he scribbled. “Probably,” he said finally, wiping his cheek with his shoulder and huffing to clear hair from his mouth. “How about… ‘“Well, here at last, dear friends, on the shores of the Sea comes the end of our fellowship in Middle-earth. Go in peace! I will not say: do not weep; for not all tears are an evil.”’

Aaron was quiet. “Gandalf,” he said finally. “When they leave Middle-earth forever.”

A sad kind of grin filtered across Spencer’s features. “You _did_ finish the books. You said you never did.”

“Yeah, well.” Aaron knocking his foot against Spencer’s again, poking at his heel with his toe just to be annoying. “I didn’t want you to think I was a total nerd. I’ve got some reputation to uphold you know.”

Spencer laughed. “Look at this.” He leaned the notepad down, flipping back through to their first clumsy attempts at writing. “We were… young.”

_And this place is forever known as Rhosgobel and the armies of Fear won’t come here,_ was written clumsily across the page in Spencer’s handwriting. _On this date of August 1992, we call this place OURS forevermore._

“You still used stupid big words,” Aaron pointed out.

Spencer flicked the page over, tilting it up at him. _Their is a beetle in our Fort,_ said Aaron’s handwriting. “Your grammar was still atrocious,” Spencer remarked snidely, snapping the book shut. Aaron laughed.

“We’ll look back at this one day and shudder,” he promised, leaning back against the tree and studying the sagging fence. “I guarantee it. What are you going to do when you get to college? You staying in a dorm? That’s nuts. Everyone around you is going to be so _old_.”

Silence. The pen was back, tapping at the cover. Spencer stared at him, with an intent kind of focus Aaron had _never_ seen on his face before. “Come with me,” he said abruptly, dropping the pen and the notebook and sitting up on his knees, shuffling closer. “I’ll talk to… I’ll organize something. We can hide you. I have money—I use Mom’s bank card all the time for groceries, she won’t notice if I get you a bus ticket.”

Aaron stared, stunned. A bird shrieked overhead. “I’m… not even fourteen yet,” he stammered. “Not for another two months. I… I _can’t_ , Spence. I’m just a kid.”

A huff was his reply. “So?” Spencer’s voice was dark, angry, the same pinched kind of fury flashing back onto his features that Aaron had seen once before, his eyes locked on Aaron’s mouth. “I’ve looked after people before. I promise, we can work something out. You can study with me, you won’t miss school—I’ll help you.”

Surging to his feet, the world felt thin and uneasy around him. Aaron shook his head, stumbled back, tried to voice _words_ , but they failed. “That’s running away,” he said, feeling sick. “I… I can’t do that.”

Spencer stood too, his knuckles white on clenched hands. “It’s _not_ running away,” he said hotly. “It’s not running away if they hurt you, Aaron.” And there it was. The first time either of them had voiced it out loud. “They’re not allowed to hurt you… and… and I don’t want to leave you here. His eyes were dangerously bright behind his lenses. “I can’t leave you where you’ll be hurt…”

“It wouldn’t be right.” Aaron’s voice was muted. It _wouldn’t_. It would scare people, put a strain on Spencer, get him in _trouble_. And he couldn’t do that. Mostly that last thing. If they were caught, it could cost Spence his place at college. But he couldn’t just say _no_ , because Spencer was half a heartbeat away from crying and Aaron had never had someone this worried for him before. It wasn’t a good feeling. “But when I finish school, I’ll come to you. I promise. Okay?”

A nod. A quiet, “Okay,” and then Spencer dived for the bag he’d brought with him, fumbling with the zip. Aaron watched mutely, until a book appeared in his friend’s shaking hands, thrust suddenly under his nose. “Here. For you. It… it’s Mom’s. I asked her if I could give it to you and she said yes.”

Aaron took it, looking down on the worn and loved cover. _Lord of the Rings; complete trilogy._ “I don’t have anything to give you in return,” he said thickly, fingers tracing the thin pages, knowing Spencer’s hands had paged through them countless times before. There was a dog-eared corner. He let it fall open to that one, found a passage highlighted in yellow. Notes in the margins, not just in Spencer’s writing, but in a sharper, clearer script.

_“Your time may come. Do not be too sad, Sam. You cannot be always torn in two. You will have to be one and whole, for many years. You have so much to enjoy and to be, and to do.” – for the friend of my son, thank you. A mother cannot bear her child’s loneliness._ D. Reid.

“You’ve given me enough,” Spencer said firmly. His hands fell back to his side. The sun dipped. Another day over. Another last. “I’ll write to you soon. And… I’ll see you again. You _promised_ , after all.”

“Yeah.” Aaron closed the book and, on impulse, stepped forward and hugged his friend. A quick, awkward hug, just long enough to feel the hammering beat of the heart against his. Then it was over. “Thank you.”

Spencer looked confused. “For the book?”

A simple answer. “For everything.”


	17. Epistolary, 1995-96

Dear Aaron,

I don’t have much time to write at the moment—things are crazy getting everything ready! You were right though. Everyone here is so much older than me. It’s… intimidating. People stare. They’ll get used to me though, I think.

I’ve enclosed my new address with this so you’ll be able to write back. I miss you.

How’s high school? How’s Rhosgobel? How are things at home?

I’ll write you a proper letter soon, I promise. They’re pairing me up with a professor here since I’m so young and some of the faculty aren’t comfortable with having me living on campus. I have to meet him today and he’s going to show me around, get me used to the place. He seems nice enough. A bit distant. Very smart though, I looked up his papers. He’s very impressive—I hope he’s not frustrated by having to look after a thirteen-year-old…

I have to go now. Talk soon.

Your friend, Spencer R.

10/04/1995

 

* * *

 

Spence,

School is school. I’m doing fine. Making friends, you know me. Home is home. Also fine! Don’t worry about me—just focus on yourself! By the time you get this, you’ll actually _be_ thirteen. Happy birthday! I guess thirteen is gonna feel a LOT different from twelve for you. But you’ll do fine. I bet your smarter than that professor too. You’re probably smarter than them ALL. I’m pretty sure you’re the smartest. Dare you to prove me wrong!

Rhosgobel is really nice in the fall. I wish I had a camera to show you—I know how much you love fall and October. I think Jessica has one. I’ll see if I can borrow it and send you a polaroid.

When you’re settled in, wanna start writing our story again? I could use the distraction. Only if you have time.

What’s college like? What are your dorms like? Are you sharing or by yourself? Is everyone drunk all the time like on TV? Have you gotten drunk yet?

Can’t wait to hear back when things are calmer for you

Your bored friend, Aaron H

10/20/1995

 

* * *

 

Mr. & Mrs. Hotchner

(street address not disclosed)

Manassas, VA, 20110

October 21, 1995

 

Dear Mr. & Mrs. Hotchner,

This letter is regarding the suspension of your son, Aaron Hotchner, for the period of three business days beginning on the 21st of October. Our school has a three strike policy for violence within the school grounds, and Aaron has already been involved in several altercations of a physical nature. We hope he takes this time to consider the impression he’s making on a new class of peers with this behaviour so early in the school year, and considers turning things around. Further behaviour of this manner will lead to the matter being escalated.

We look forward to re-entering Aaron back into the school community at the end of his suspension period, and hope that this doesn’t happen again.

We look forward to hearing from you. Take care.

 

Mrs. Julia Robinson

Osbourne Park High School

 

* * *

 

**Prince William Medical Centre – Clinical Data Entry**

**Admitted:** 11/28/1995 at 16:05

**Name:** Aaron James Hotchner

**Age:** Fourteen

**Bed:** 04

**Reason for Admission:** Patient presented post blunt force trauma to (side) face resulting in closed, non-displaced, stable fracture to zygomatic bone. Admitted overnight for neurological observation.

**Consultant:** Dr. Ian Barker

**Admission Notes:** CPS contacted

* * *

**Re: mandatory report made by Dr. Ian Barker of Prince William Medical Centre – Aaron James Hotchner case [draft v.5 following review new evidence]**

**Conclusion:**

  1. **How seriously has the child's psychological well-being been affected?**



Considerable negative affect on child’s psychological well-being. Will continue to degrade if child continues to be subjected to adverse conditions.

  1. **What therapeutic interventions would be recommended to assist the child?**



TBA once child is removed from adverse conditions.

  1. **Can the parent(s) be successfully treated to prevent harm to the child in the future? If so, how? If not, why not?**



It is our belief that the parents cannot be treated to prevent harm to the child in a timeframe reasonably allowing for the child’s continued safe dwelling in the home. Parents resistant to offers of treatment. Further interventions while child continues to live in home under parental care will place child under further risk.

  1. **What would be the psychological effect upon the child if returned to the parent(s)?**



N/A child currently under parental home care.

  1. **What would be the psychological effect upon the child if separated from the parents or if parental rights are terminated?**



It is our belief, having considered the evidence submitted to us that states there is a beyond a reasonable doubt of sustained physical abuse within the home, that the child’s best interests lie in an immediate removal from the parent’s care followed by procedures to terminate parental rights. There is an immediate and high risk of continued physical and mental harm upon the child so long as he remains within the parental home.

 

* * *

 

Dear Aaron,

You haven’t replied for a while? Are things okay? I’ve sent three letters. I’m worried…

Your friend, Spencer R.

12/05/1995

 

* * *

 

Spencer

Things are bad

I’m not going to send this

I wish I went with you

Aaron.

12/13/1995

PS Merry Christmas

 

* * *

 

Dear Spencer,

Hey! Things are fine. Did you have a good Christmas and New Years?? How’s college? Sorry I wasn’t responding much, things got hectic at school and you know how it is.

Want to start writing our story again?

Your friend, Aaron

01/19/1996

 

* * *

 

Aaron,

I don’t believe you. Something is wrong. Why won’t you answer any of my questions??

Spence.

01/27/1996

 

* * *

 

Aaron,

Don’t be mad.

Go to Rhosgobel on the 22nd of March, 22:00.

I’m sorry. I had to.

Spencer.

02/15/1996

 

* * *

 

Spencer,

What the hell?? Are you coming here? What’s going on? Spencer, seriously, I’m fine. Things are just all over the place. Why are you coming here? I mean, I’m excited, but where are you staying? What are you doing?

Freaking out, Aaron H.

02/22/1996

 

* * *

 

Spencer seriously what the fuck is going on

Don’t come here. It’s not safe, man. Look, okay, I lied, things are shit at home. BUT IM DEALING WITH IT. DON’T COME HERE.

I’m scared, okay? I’m scared you’re planning something that’s gonna get you hurt nad Im scared of getting hurt and Im scared they’re going to take me away and the only reason they haven’t is because Im telling everyone that IM FINE. Im not. Im really not, so don’t don’t don’t come here. I can’t go with you. Dad will come after me and he’ll hurt you too. He hurts EVERYONE.

I’m probably not going to send this either but Im really scared

 

* * *

 

Spencer.

Okay. So. I’m about to leave to meet you.

God, I hope this goes okay. Don’t get hurt.

Promise me you won’t get hurt, whatever happens. I couldn’t stand that.

Aaron H.

 

* * *

 

**Runaway Juvenile/Missing Person Report**

**Date:** 03/25/1996

**Time:** 09:04

**Complainant’s Name:** Mary-Ann Judith Hotchner (Mother)

**Name of Runaway/Missing Person:** Aaron James Hotchner

**DOB:** 11/01/1981

**Sex:** M

**Date & Time of Last Contact: **03/22/1996, approx. 20:00

**Location of Last Contact:** Home—Mother reports sending son to bed. Reports he was gone when she woke in the morning. Assumed was with friends. No clothing missing, personal effects. Bike missing.

**Possible Companions:** Possible contact with older brother (Sean Hotchner), location unknown.

**Possible Complications:** CPS proceedings underway for termination of parental rights. Physical abuse suspected in home. Older brother previous runaway. Delay between last contact and report made—3 days

**Miscellaneous – include clothing description, build, handedness, any illnesses or diseases, etc.:** Stocky build, 70 inches tall, 112 pounds. Left-handed. Dark hair, short-cropped, dark eyes. No vision correction. Clothes reported: blue denim jeans, red Nike sneakers, white unadorned t-shirt, grey sweater with school logo. No jewellery. No scars or distinguishing features. No illnesses reported.

**STATEMENT OF REPORTING PERSON: I, the undersigned, hereby declare this to be a true and correct report. I am the legal guardian or person who has the legal custody of this runaway juvenile. I understand that I may be charged with violation of MCA 45-7-205 “False Reports to Law Enforcement Authorities” by filing a false report. I also understand that this juvenile report will be submitted to the Juvenile Authorities for information and/or action on the runaway. I will provide transportation for the runaway when apprehended.**

**Complainant’s signature:** M.J. Hotchner

**Date:** 03/25/1996

**Police Department Representative:** Sgt. J. Lewis.


	18. Quicksilver Change

To Sean Hotchner,

You don’t know me, but my name is Spencer Reid, and I know your brother. I saw your letter to him. I didn’t mean to, but I accidentally read it, and I remembered your address. I hope it’s the same one.

I know this isn’t my place. I know I shouldn’t be writing to you. But I _read_ that letter, and I know you love your brother. I know you want him safe. It’s not my place, but I’m ~~asking~~ begging you; please don’t ignore this.

Your brother is my best friend. I love him too and I think he’s in danger.

Please reply if you get this. He needs help and I can’t help him. You can.

Best regards, Spencer Reid

12/06/1995

 

* * *

 

Hi Spencer

What do you mean he’s in danger? How can I contact you? Do you live near him? Where is he?!?

My phone is 917-555-0108

Call me please

Sean Hotchner

12/15/1996

 

* * *

 

Aaron,

Don’t be mad.

Go to Rhosgobel on the 22nd of March, 22:00.

I’m sorry. I had to.

Spencer.

02/15/1996

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

Spencer,

I’m okay. I’m safe. I don’t have time to write much and I can’t put my address on here yet. But I will, soon, I promise.

I’m not mad. What you did…

When Gandalf got caught by Saruman, Radagast couldn’t go himself to save him because it was too dangerous, so he sent someone who could.

Thank you.

Aaron.

02/25/1996

 

* * *

 

To Mr. Carmody

Bennet Elementary School, Manassas, VA

 

Hi Mr. Carmody. You might not remember me, but I didn’t know who else to ask. I used to come to you for counselling a few years back and you helped me enter my story into a competition and send letters to my friend, Spencer.

I think you might be able to get in trouble for this so it’s okay if you take this to the police, I won’t be mad. I’ve been doing some reading on legal stuff and it doesn’t make much sense but I know you have to tell them about runaways and stuff. But before you take it to them, can you give a letter to my mom? She still volunteers at the school sometimes and she goes to your church. You can read it. I just want her to know Im okay and safe.

I’m sorry if this gets you into trouble or makes you mad.

I never told you how much I liked going to see you every week. You really helped me back then, but now I have to help myself. If you need to reply to me, you’ll be able to reach me through our friend soon enough.

Thank you

 

Regards, Aaron H. Age 14

Somewhere safe

02/25/1996

 

* * *

 

Mom

I’m safe and I love you. Please don’t look for me. I’m with Sean. I don’t want to come home. Maybe one day, but not now. I promise I’ll keep going to school and Ill do something with my life. I promise I will, if you let me go.

This isn’t your fault.

Love, your son, Aaron

02/25/1996

 

* * *

 

**Internal Memo: re: Hotchner case**

From: Dep. K. Ashen

To: Sgt. J. Lewis

Mrs. Hotchner withdrew the missing person report, Sarge. Apparently they found him living with the brother. No idea where, but he made contact and said he was safe. Said he doesn’t want to come home. Bit of a ruckus.

 

**Internal Memo: re: Hotchner case**

From: Sgt. J. Lewis

To: Dep. K. Ashen

Was that her in earlier? With the husband?

 

**Internal Memo: re: Hotchner case**

From: Dep. K. Ashen

To: Sgt. J. Lewis

Yeah. It’s all in the report. He wanted us to drag the kid home by his ears, charge the brother with kidnapping. Mrs. Hotchner gave him a look and he shut up. Don’t think all is right in that house.

 

**Internal Memo: re: Hotchner case**

From: Sgt. J. Lewis

To: Dep. K. Ashen

Kids are well out of it then. I’ll close the case. Cheers Carmody.

 

* * *

 

Dear Spencer,

This is a letter for Aaron, whenever he makes contact with you regarding his home address. Please forward it to him. Hope all is well with you and look after yourself too, kid. I know all this must be big and frightening, but it’ll be over soon and things will be better after.

 

Dear Aaron,

Of course I remember you. You were Penny’s favourite student back in the day.

I hope all is well with you. You’re a bright kid—where ever you are, keep focused on your studies. I’m sending this to our mutual friend in the hopes you contact him soon enough, and I’m enclosing a sealed packet for your brother with some paperwork I believe will come in handy in the future, if misfortune attempts to come find you again. This packet goes no further than him, promise me that. You’re right in that I can get in trouble for helping you to run away—but just like your characters in your stories; sometimes the risk is worth it to do the right thing.

I wish you all luck. My home address is on the back of this letter. I’d love to hear from you again one day (as would Penny, same address).

You’ll go far, I promise.

Regards, Adam and Penny Carmody

 

* * *

 

NOMINATION AND CONSENT OF MINOR.

I, **AARON JAMES HOTCHNER** , being 14 years of age or older do hereby nominate **SEAN LEWIS HOTCHNER** to be my guardian and consent to his/her appointment as such without the necessity of a hearing.

Dated: **05/03/1996**

**Aaron H** (signature of minor)

The petitioner believes that the appointment of a guardian for the above-named minor is necessary and desirable and is in the minor’s best interest.

Petitioner requests the Court to:

  * determine that appointment of a guardian for this minor is proper;
  * make the requested appointment; and
  * issue letters of appointment to the guardian.



Dated: **05/03/1996**

* * *

In Re: **AARON JAMES HOTCHNER**

AFFIDAVIT OF PETITIONER FOR APPOINTMENT OF GUARDIAN OF MINOR ALLEGING INTOLERABLE LIVING SITUATION

NOW COMES, **SEAN LEWIS HOTCHNER** , Petitioner in the above docketed matter, and swears to the truth of the following from Petitioner’s personal knowledge or upon information and belief which Petitioner believes to be true:

  1. Name, address and telephone number of petitioner:



**Sean Lewis Hotchner**

**[Address not disclosed to public file]**

**Brooklyn, NY, 11211**

**917-555-0108**

  1. Name and address of nominee to become guardian: (If same as item 1 enter “same”)



**Same**

  1. Relationship of such person listed in item 2 to the minor:



**Brother**

  1. Name, legal residence address and date of birth of minor.



**Aaron James Hotchner**

**[Address not disclosed to public file]**

**Manassas, VA, 20110**

**11/02/1981**

  1. Name and address of the mother of minor.



**Mary-Ann Judith Hotchner**

**[Address not disclosed to public file]**

**Manassas, VA, 20110**

  1. Name and address of the father of minor.



**Kyle Craig Hotchner**

**[Address not disclosed to public file]**

**Manassas, VA, 20110**

A living situation has been created that is at least temporarily intolerable for the minor as follows: **Sustained physical and emotional abuse within the home.**

  1. The proposed guardian will provide a living situation that is in the best interest of the minor according to the guardianship plan attached to the petition.
  2. Has any State Agency been notified **YES**.



 

* * *

 

Spencer,

We got an apartment! Like, an actual apartment, just like TV! I have my own room and everything. I didn’t at the last place we were at—Sean let me have his bed unless he had friends over and then I had to take the couch, but the lady assigned to our case said if he wants to pass all the checks, he’s gotta get me my own room. And he did and it’s AWESOME. So, I have a proper address and everything now and you can stop sending letters to the stupid PO box. This is way cooler! We have a proper lawyer now too. We couldn’t afford a good one before but Sean says we can now?

Honestly, I think Mom might be helping him. I found letters with a Manassas postmark on them in his papers. That’s so weird… Mom _never_ stands up to Dad but I think she is now? I don’t know why. I don’t understand parents. She never did anything to make him angry when I was there, and I don’t know why she wouldn’t have tried to protect me then.

I’m sorry. I was going to be all happy and cheerful but I guess Im still a bit angry over that. How are you? We’ve only been sending short letters since THAT night and it sucks and I miss your long novels. I want to know ALL about college and everything now!

I gotta go to summer school this year, yuck. I’ve been missing TONS of school because we were hiding from dad and bouncing around for a bit before we got the proper lawyer. Now she says Sean can enrol me as a temporary guardian until all the papers and stuff goes through and then he can enrol me properly.

Living with Sean is weird. We don’t have bedtimes and he gets drunk a lot, but not drunk like dad, more like drunk and watch movies all night. Some of the movies have naked bits in them—I don’t think Im supposed to watch those ones but he falls asleep and they come on and it’s so weird. I woke up in the middle of the night watching one movie the other night and WHAM naked dude walking across his trailer and then I woke up and he was shooting things and there were explosions, so I’ve got no idea what that movie was about. And he never makes me clean which would be awesome except our caseworker looked a bit worried at the dishes I was seeing how tall I could stack, so Ive started cleaning up before she comes over so we don’t get in trouble.

I tried to work out the laundry machines last week and a lady doing her washing had to help me because I messed up our sheets and the whole machine started thumping.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, things are good now. Different. But good.

Thanks

From your best friend, Aaron

PS I really really really like our lawyer. She’s really calm and smart and impressive and she basically uses rules and words to make the things we want happen. It’s AWESOME. Wouldn’t it be cool to be that powerful??

 

* * *

 

[COPY] In Re: **AARON JAMES HOTCHNER**

ACCEPTANCE OF APPOINTMENT BY GUARDIAN OF MINOR

The undersigned:

  * Was or has petitioned or been nominated to be appointed guardian of the above named minor by this court
  * If this was a testamentary appointment, has given or will give notice of acceptance to the minor



I am familiar with my responsibilities as a guardian, as set forth in 18-A MRSA § 5-209, and I accept the same willingly and without reservation, believing this acceptance to be in the best interest of the minor ward.

Dated: **08/03/1996**

**S. L. Hotchner**

_Yo, Aaron. You weren’t home from school yet, so I stuck this to your door._

_Came through today. Grats, little brother. You’re here to stay, and ain’t no one gonna hurt you here. EVER._

_Welcome home._


	19. Epistolary, 1997

[Page 27 of 31]

—and I don’t understand why people use the library for things other than reading? Why would you go somewhere filled with _books_ and not take advantage of the insanely vast breadth of information being offered?? I couldn’t even hear myself think, there was so much chatter. After a while, I gave up and just listened to them instead. The processes of human thought are never as clear as when on display in casual conversation—honestly, despite theories of the public self vs. the private self, I think there’s an argument to be made for an integration of the two. Have you looked into behavioural psychology theories? I’m already over midway through my psychology BA, and my guide is starting to talk about specialization, and I’m considering it. There was a speaker here a few weeks back, working for the FBI, and it really seems like a viable career choice—if I _ever_ grow up enough to pass the physicals anyway. Sometimes it feels like I’m always going to be the smallest in the room. I’m going to do something with sociology once I finish psychology and chemistry, anyway. If they let me as I begin my PhD. They might make me space them out a bit—I’ve got a while before I’m employable, I guess, so I may as well take my time but there’s just so much I want to do!

How are things with Sean? Did he work out that mess with work, or did he lose this job too? I hope you don’t have to move apartments again. Has the neighbour been peculiar again?? SO SO I’ve been thinking—you said he walks around all night in like… patterns, yeah? And the lights are always weird? Don’t dismiss this out of hand but he might be an _alien_. Or a vampire. Are his windows covered over? You guys share a fire escape with him right? You should check to see if his windows are covered over ~~OR IF THERE’S SCORCH MARKS FROM A SPACESHIP.~~ Wait, that’s stupid, he wouldn’t pilot a spacecraft from a populated area. Maybe we should get samples from his door handle and check them for unidentified substances? Alien juices or something.

Move for our chess game – MOVE 20. RxN ch NxR – check, and mate to me in four moves (remember, x is a capture! My rook, your knight)

Okay, so I read over what you wrote for our story and I think it’s done? I mean, they found out who the murderer was, so all we have to do is conclude that, and I can do that. I was thinking, do you want to work a bit more on the story with Halcyon? I was reading it again the other day in a spare moment and we never _did_ anything with them, really. They just found their names and that was it. Halcyon is still in that attic and your boy has a name but nothing else, not really. We could do more—

 

S. W. Reid

02/21/1997

 

* * *

 

Dear Spence,

Jeez, how many degrees is that now? You JUST finished your maths one, didn’t you? You’ve got education to spare! Hope you help me out, man, when I follow you in two years! Not long now.

Pfft, as if you can just TELL you’re going to checkmate me. I bet you won’t. You’re bluffing for sure! The diagram says I can take your pawn with my queen, so do that. That’s probably a check, I think.

Yeah, he lost his job again. It’s alright, he found another one! He’s working at a bar. Means he’s out a lot, so I get the place to myself which is really cool. I’m not alone very much though—I just bring friends home instead if they’re up for it. Last week, Ben brought over his new girlfriend and she had a bottle of whiskey from her parents. I only had a few mouthfuls, we had school the next day and I _told_ them they’d end up hungover, but man, what I had _burned_. In a good way though, I guess? I can’t see the appeal of it as a regular thing though. (and they did get hungover, and it was hilarious. Should have seen them in calc.)

Come on Spence, I told you last time. The neighbour isn’t a vampire or an alien OR a skin-walker. Where do you get this stuff?!? But he drives this white van and has packages all the time. Maybe he’s a people smuggler! Selling people for like… organs and stuff. Maybe he _eats_ people.

Do you think my character would try to find Halcyon? She can’t stay lost forever. She must be lonely all alone in the place where lost things go. I don’t like to think about her being lonely.

I wonder how Rhosgobel is going.

I’m glad college is going so well for you! Maybe on your holidays you can come visit if you have a chance? Sean has a car—we could come get you? It’s been so long since we saw each other… I miss you a bit. Seriously, consider it. I’ll talk to Sean. We can finally watch horror movies together then!

Let me know what you think. Please consider it!

Your friend, Aaron H.

02/28/1997

 

* * *

 

_PS How’s this?_

_Aaron H. 15 yr. old._

Ever since he’d found his magic, he’d hated when summer ended. He hated the silence when the cicadas used to sing, he hated the chill hint of winter in the air, he hated the defeated shades of orange and yellow the trees outside his window took on. Orange and yellow, he decided, was the colour of things dying.

Inside the house, everything got quieter when fall came. Quiet and tired with the coming winter, and even the doors forgot to enjoy being opened. He’d climb up into the attic, look through the window, and note that where Halcyon lived, summer never seemed to end.

_I’ve never known a winter_ , Halcyon wrote one day for him to read, and he thought that was lucky. _But it’s always silent here._ After that, he wondered how lucky she really was.

And he wondered and wondered and wondered as another summer ended. He was changing too, with the seasons, growing taller and stronger and the attic wasn’t quite so cosy anymore. There came a day when he was walking through his house, the doors were mute, and he thought maybe someone passing in the hall called a name. Maybe his name. He was being _noticed_ , and the thought worried him.

He didn’t like change, either. Didn’t like the whisper of a name, didn’t like his new height or the crack in his voice, didn’t like how Halcyon’s knees now showed under the ragged hem of her dress. Change wasn’t just coming to him.

_What happens if someone finds you?_ he asked her one day, writing it on a notepad they kept there just for this purpose.

_No one ever has_ , she replied quickly, before gesturing to him to move his chess piece again. _Come on, your turn. Why worry about what may never happen? No one is looking for me._

And that solved it really.

He picked up the cardboard with every name they’d considered for him before discarding, found an empty space, and carefully wrote—in big letters, so she knew he meant it— ** _My name is No-One._**

If only No-One was looking for her, then it was up to him to find her.

 

* * *

 

AARON

MOM SAID YES. I CAN COME VISIT, I CAN COME VISIT!!!! WHAT DID SEAN SAY??!

This is the number you can call me on to reach the dorms 508-756-6676

RING ME IF YOU CAN! ~~I miss you so much I can’t wait to maybe~~ I’m really looking forward to seeing you

SUPER SUPER SUPER EXCITED, SPENCER

PS Sorry this is all ~~smuged~~ smudgy. I got Moms reply late and ~~wrot~~ wrote this straight away and Im still freaking out!!

 

* * *

 

_… The youngest currently enrolled student at MIT, Spencer Reid is in the process of collecting as many degrees as he possibly can. Beginning his college career at the age of twelve, the child prodigy from Las Vegas just this year was awarded with bachelor degrees in both mathematics and chemistry, with psychology soon to follow. Spencer’s mentor since his first semester, the distinguished Dr. Ross Connors, spoke to representatives on the committed student’s behalf, saying: ‘It has been an honour and a pleasure to guide such a promising young academic on his path for knowledge. Spencer has untapped potential for greatness, and I look forward to being there to see him reach new heights.’_

_Embarking upon his post-graduate studies beginning next year, Spencer will soon be earning the title of MIT’s youngest…_

* * *

**Academic Achievement Award**

This award is presented to

AARON J. HOTCHNER

for garnering 1st honors in **Academic Excellence**

for the school year 1996-1997

 

MARY ELIZABETH THOMPSON

PRINCIPAL

 

* * *

 

Dear Spencer,

NOT LONG NOW. We’re gonna come pick you up when semester ends, okay?? I’ve already cleaned my room and Sean got me a fold-out bed you can sleep on. Three whole weeks! That’s forever for us to do stuff! It’ll be just when we were kids, but _better_.

Your last letter was a mess! Your grammar, I was APPALLED, Spencer, appalled! Are you sure you were just excited? Aha the only time I’m that much of a mess is when Ive had a bit. College boy now, huh? You’re a bad influence. I should probably warn Sean before you come here and pass your bad habits on.

I’m just teasing. To answer your question, seriously excited, if you couldn’t tell from all the exclamation points!!! Only one month, three days left until we see each other again! Just like old times, counting down.

See you soon!! From Aaron H.

05/14/1997

 

* * *

 

Aaron,

By the time I get your reply to this, you’ll be here, so a short one today!

(by the way, I got you in checkmate. I’ll show you when you pick me up. Told you I’d beat you!)

~~I wasn’t _drunk_.~~ It wasn’t that much of a mess, and I resent your implications that I’M the bad influence here, Mr. I Cheat at Chess Because I Think My Genius Friend Won’t Notice. I’d just had ~~some~~ one and a bit with someone. It wasn’t _fun_. I don’t plan on doing it again. ~~Cognitive functions are greatly reduced with the application of alcohol.~~

I have to go finish up my research for the semester so I can leave RIGHT when semester ends.

See you soon!

S. W. Reid

05/23/1997


	20. Interlude Start

Sean seemed determined that Spencer and him would be firm friends by the end of this visit. Aaron could have told him _firm_ friends might be a bit overly hopeful, seeing as it took Aaron himself almost two years to earn that status, but he was making a good start by being generous with the candy.

“Alright, fine, favourite horror movie from the 80s?” Sean was saying, sprawled on his back on the couch with a smoke hanging unlit from between his teeth and half a burger in his other hand. Curled in the armchair with his knees to his chest and chin resting on them, Spencer looked both somehow intent on the conversation and terrified of being the centre of attention. Aaron was silent from his seat on the floor. Just… taking in the moment. Spencer, _here_ , in his apartment, complete with glasses and over-long hair and shy smile. That hadn’t changed. Taller now, thinner. His clothes were still odd, replacing the polo and sweaters with an unironed button-down shirt under a sweater vest worn thin from too many washes, and a pair of faded slacks. The sneakers were the same, open at the ends to hint at the way he wiggled his odd-socked toes as he focused.

It was bizarre and amazing all at once to have him here again. Just the same, despite the differences. There’d been a moment of awkward silence when they’d pulled up to find Spencer standing by the curb looking worried. But just a moment. “Alright there, Radagast?” Aaron had teased, sticking his head out the window, and that had been the end of any awkwardness.

Rambling about Poltergeist, Spencer glanced down at Aaron and smiled as he talked. It was a curl at the corner of his mouth, a hidden smile just for his friend layered with how much he’d missed him. Aaron swallowed back a whorl of giddy delight and felt himself grin stupidly.

“Well, time for me to go to work,” Sean said finally, licking his fingers and vanishing from the room. “Later, nerds.” And he was gone and for the first time in almost two years, they were alone.

Sliding to the floor with a soft _thumf_ on the ratty carpet, Spencer inched closer until both their backs were against the armchair, shoulders touching.

“Your brother is really nice,” he said, tipping his head back to eye the flickering TV screen absently. “It’s really great he’s letting me stay.”

Aaron breathed in, tasting the corn chips they’d been eating, the scent of Spencer’s deodorant sharp and muted all at once, a hint of shampoo. It was a weird, familiar-not familiar scent and it made his throat ache and his chest feel odd and tight, like the physical feeling of missing his friend was only augmented by his proximity.

“It’s really great you came to stay,” he said, softly, feeling tired and happy all at once, letting his head loll back as well, the barest weight against his friend’s shoulder. Spencer hitched, his breath catching, but didn’t move away. They waited until the movie was done, not speaking, just watching and together, and wordlessly made their way to their respective beds. The next three weeks stretched out in front of them like the endless promise of one more summer.

 

* * *

 

Despite the open window and the thin breeze from the oscillating fan perched on Aaron’s wonky dresser, the room was uncomfortably warm. They’d both kicked their sheets off, Spencer laying spread-eagled on the fold-out bed with his hands behind his head and hair rucked up into an unruly mess of curls and knots and Aaron on his side, shirtless with one arm dangling over the edge of his bed, fingertips trailing on the carpet.

“Nice hair,” Aaron teased, reaching over and flicking a lock away from his friend’s eyes. Spencer blinked, twitching away from the sudden movement, laughing with the surprise. “You look like one of those ragdolls girls dragged around in old movies.”

“Raggedy Ann dolls,” Spencer said, rolling his eyes. “And I do not. Do I?” He arched back, trying to peer upside-down into the mirror Aaron had propped against one wall. It was supposed to be attached to his dresser, but it… broke. Nothing to do with Aaron wrestling Sean against it and the support cracking against the wall, honest.

“A little,” Aaron said with a snort, reaching for his friend’s bag when Spencer scowled and glanced to it. “Got a brush?” He hooked his hand around it, dragging it closer so Spence could reach it, accidentally tipping it over. “Oops.” He caught the brush as it skittered under the bed, stomach pressed against the edge of his bed, hearing a thump as books spilled from the open top.

Spencer lunged, catching one book in particular and hugging it close. It was leather-bound, gorgeously titled, the pages edged silver. “Careful,” he said, holding the book out reverently for Aaron to see. “I brought it to show you. How awesome is it?”

“Woah,” Aaron agreed, taking the book with both hands and tracing his thumb over the embossed symbol on the front, _The History of Middle Earth_ traced down the side in filigree silver. “This looks _fancy._ Your mom get you this for getting your degrees?” He flipped it open, hungrily skimming the pages.

“No,” Spencer said quietly, taking it back, looking flushed and overawed all at once. “My professor did. I was talking about Lord of the Rings and our writing and… and Rhosgobel. He asked. I… I hope you don’t mind.”

There was something uncomfortable in Aaron’s belly at the knowledge someone knew about _their_ place. “Not really,” he lied, sitting back on the bed and hanging his bare toes off the corner of the fold-out bed, bouncing it with his leg. “I mean, Sean knows now too. It’s no big deal.” The subject grew bigger between them, heavy, and he quickly changed it. “What did your mom say about the book? She loves stuff like that, yeah?”

Spencer shrugged. “Didn’t tell her,” he mumbled, flushing again. “She… wasn’t really well. And I didn’t want her to feel bad, you know? About not being able to give me gifts… I don’t _want_ gifts, she knows that, but she still feels bad when she’s lucid enough to understand.”

Aaron understood that. He pushed away the resentment at this faceless professor, the hollow feeling that Spencer had a life and friends and people who cared for him that was completely separate and apart from Aaron himself, and focused instead on being happy for his friend and his achievements. “It’s a great book,” he announced, smiling. “You’ll have to read bits to me, otherwise it’ll take me _months_ to chew through it.” He slugged his friend’s arm, pausing at the last moment to brush his fingers against Spencer’s bicep in a comforting sort of touch, the moment lingering. Spencer’s eyes met him, wide and wary behind smudged glasses. Aaron swallowed. Opened his mouth. Lost his train of thought.

“Hey, dork,” hollered Sean through the door, hammering on it. “Phone for ya. Hurry up! I’m not an answering machine.”

“Probably Eric about tonight,” Aaron said, his voice cracking, stepping away from Spencer feeling dizzy and hot and completely unsure of what was going on. “They usually come over on Fridays while Sean’s at work. Is that cool?”

Spencer nodded, slowly, expression dazed, and followed him from the room. “Sure,” he said, quiet enough that Aaron only just heard him. “Sure…”

 

* * *

 

Spence was being twitchy. Aaron glanced at him out the corner of his eye, noting the wide-eyed worry written across his face and the white-knuckled grip of his hand around the bottle. The room felt crowded, despite there only being the six of them there, the air hazed with the smoke lazily curling from Eric’s smoke.

“You alright?” Aaron muttered out the corner of his mouth, turning his torso towards Spencer to shut the others out as they chattered together, voices loud and thick with the alcohol they’d drunk. His own voice was deep, still strong, and he coughed to clear it. Hazel eyes flickered up to lock on him. “I told you. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

A shrug was his reply. Aaron watched as Spencer swigged from the bottle, lips awkward around the mouth, throat working as he swallowed heavily and winced. Not once did they break eye contact. The room felt closed in, airless, and Aaron took a drink of his own, the dregs at the bottom of his bottle luke-warm. “Come on,” he snapped, irate for no reason, standing and swaying as he tugged Spencer up by his sleeve. “Come get another with me.”

“But mine is still full,” Spencer protested, holding his beer out like a lifeline. With a cocky kind of half-grin, Aaron grabbed it and chugged the rest, managing not to choke, “… _hey_.”

So, he followed reluctantly. Aaron waited until the kitchen door had swung shut behind them, cutting out the noise of conversation, and turned on his friend. “What are you _doing_?” he asked firmly, noting the pink flush to his friend’s cheeks, the stubborn shape of his jaw, the line to his still damp mouth that only ever went quite like that when Spencer was _really_ determined to get his own way. _Stop it,_ he told himself, shaking his head and feeling the room shake with him. _What the hell is wrong with you? It’s **Spencer**_.

“You want them to like me,” Spencer was saying, leaning against the door in a long line of ruffled clothes and wild hair, “I can tell. You’d never say as much to me, but their approval of me would mean the world to you, and they’re unlikely to approve of me unless I approximate some kind of familiarity with them.” Trying to translate that was proving a little too difficult for Aaron at this point. Instead, he stepped forward, trying to be firm and commanding and instead wobbling and almost tipping into his friend. Spencer caught him with one hand around his arm, snorted out a rough laugh, and rolled his eyes.

“Don’t,” he said, stumbling on the words and aware he’d probably drunk a little too much too quick to try and drown out the anxiety clamouring in his head; anxiety that Spencer had apparently read easily anyway. “Don’t do… that. That thing you’re doing.”

“You’re so verbose when you’re drunk,” Spencer replied pertly, his breath hot and beer-scented. Aaron shivered, unsure, basically leaping back out of distance of that scent. _Stop it_ , he thought again, and pressed his knuckles against his eyes. “I’m fine, Aaron. I don’t mind. And I’m apparently a lot better at handling my alcohol than you are, incidentally.”

Considering and reconsidering his next move, Aaron stepped cautiously to the fridge, every foot placed with great care. Nudged aside the week old pizza, grabbed another beer for himself and for Spence, knocking the tops off quickly on the counter. “Fine,” he breathed, walking back and offering the bottle, “but on one condition.”

“Hmm?” Spencer asked, taking the offered drink and tracing his finger around the neck absently.

Aaron leaned closer, to be sure Spencer understood. “You be yourself,” he said, intent, and didn’t look away. “Just yourself. That’s who I want tonight. If they don’t like it, they can shove it up their collective asses.”

Spencer chuckled and took a drink. It was long and slow and Aaron looked away. “Okay,” he said mildly, lowering the bottle. “Can’t really end up in a worse state than you.”


	21. Interlude Middle

Spencer stared at the bottle. Aaron stared at Chloe.

As one, they all three looked at the closet.

“This is a bad—” Chloe began, with a nervous glance at Aaron.

“I don’t really think—” Aaron said, standing just in case and finding that the floor wasn’t really flooring anymore.

Spencer was silent.

“Rules of the game, come on,” Eric complained, sprawled back against Hannah with his arm around her. “In you go, you two. Seven minutes. No outs.”

Spencer swallowed, and stood, looking very much like a man walking to his execution. Aaron looked from his friend to the horrified kind of flush on Chloe’s face, something dark and worried worming its way to tighten around his chest. He grabbed Spencer’s hand, kicked the bottle in his stumbling lunge forward, and stepped in front of his friend.

“Look, if he’s not comfortable with it, it’s stupid to push,” he snapped, angry and with no real reason why. It wasn’t like anything would happen anyway. Eric _always_ did this, came up with stupid childish games to fuck with them. Last time, Aaron had spent an awkward fourteen minutes explaining the plot of The Matrix to Rebecca when they’d both gotten shoved in there. And Chloe was as sensible as they came. “Leave it, Eric.”

“Someone’s gotta go in there.” Eric was resolute. And Spencer was still silent. His head down, eyes locked on the carpet, hair covering his expression.

“Fine,” Aaron said, wiping his mouth and squaring his shoulders, striding forward. Goddamnit. The closet was full of crap, unpacked moving boxes, sports gear, Sean’s shoes. It was going to be uncomfortable. _You owe me_ , he thought crankily, stepping in there and turning, throwing his arms outward with a _hrumph_ of irritation. “I’m in. I’ll take his place—”

There was a squeal, a whoop, and Aaron blinked just in time to see Spencer hurtling into him as Eric boldly scooped the younger boy up and tossed him in. _Whump,_ and they went down in a flurry of limbs and yelps, Aaron falling back against a box and feeling something crack inside, Spencer flopping heavily on top, wheezing at the impact. And the door slammed shut, the giggles outside muffled by the sound of something being hooked under the handle.

“Son of a bi—” Aaron hissed, trying to wriggle out from under his friend in the darkness, but Spencer just went limper, his head hanging, shoulders shaking. “Shit. Are you okay?” The only light was a sliver from the crack around the door, and it caught the profile of Spencer’s face as he looked up and began to snicker helplessly, slithering down and off Aaron to curl on the floor with his face buried in his knees. “Stop laughing,” Aaron told him firmly. The giggles continued. “Stop laughing! It’s not funny!”

“Yes it is,” came a muffled voice from outside. Aaron slapped the palm of his hand against the door.

Spencer began laughing harder.

“I hate everyone,” Aaron groaned, and let gravity pull him off the moving box and into the tangle of Spencer on the closet floor, arms and legs knocking together and almost on his friend’s lap. “This is _childish_.” His head spun, thumped, and he leaned it on his knee, feeling Spencer still shaking with laughter next to him.

“Do you think Gandalf and Radagast ever had to do this?” Spencer asked, and Aaron jerked his head up to stare incredulously at his friend, almost tipping forward. Spencer’s hair brushed his cheek before he could straighten, a puff of hot breath working past his jaw.

“Cuddle in a tiny closet because the Fellowship got drunk and tossed them in there together?” Aaron asked, dizzy and warm, the skin of his arm thrumming from where it was pressed against Spencer’s arm.

“The Fellowship never met Radagast,” Spencer said quietly. “Are you shaking?” A hand touched his arm, fingers trailing across his skin. Aaron shivered. They were silent for a moment, listening, but the hall outside was quiet.

The touch didn’t move away, even when Aaron murmured, “No.” It pressed down, fingers trembling, curling over his elbow and tracing the crook. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Spencer said quickly, and his hand dropped away, his breath coming fast. Aaron stared intently at him, trying to read him in the half-nothing light of the closet; reading into the stuttering pattern of breathing, the rapid shift of the chest against his side, the gallop of the heart within that chest. “Sorry. I’m. I think I’m drunk.”

“Good thinking, genius,” Aaron said, then frowned as he tried to muddle through what he’d just said. “I don’t mind.” A sharp inhale. Spencer was trembling. Aaron thought he might be too, inching closer to him and hooking their legs together, watching his friend’s face carefully. “I don’t mind,” he repeated again, his throat dry and heart skipping two beats in succession. He could practically feel the rush of his blood, a bubble of nervous fear/worry/excitement working its way up from his stomach to swallow all the air before it could reach his brain. Spencer’s mouth slipped open, possibly to talk, possibly to breathe, outlined in the white glint of light from the door-crack. Aaron watched those lips. Leaned towards them, insanely, thoughtlessly, and this was his _friend_. This could ruin everything.

But _fuck_ , did that not feel like it mattered right now.

A hand pressed against his chest suddenly, and Aaron froze. Tried to read the intention behind that hand—to push him back or pull him closer? Fingers bunched in his shirt, loosened, splayed across his heart, and Spencer tilted his chin away and coughed nervously, the sound dry.

“Your heartrate is accelerated,” he said abruptly, looking back. The hand on Aaron’s chest shifted to his wrist, pressed against his skin. “Bounding pulse. Clammy skin, indicates nervousness or…”

“Shut the textbook off, Spence,” Aaron replied, his skin burning in a line as Spencer’s hand worked up his arm, those long, clever fingers finding his throat and the pulse that beat rapidly there. They tested it before outlining the shape of his jaw, and there was no hiding what he was now. Freaking out, for one, because this was his best friend, his oldest friend, and he wasn’t _gay_. Except here, except now, contemplating leaning in and tasting those lips. Except after, when he could draw his friend out of the closet, up the hall, into the bedroom… “I’m not running on logic right now.”

Spence twitched, nodded, jerked forward and then back, unsure. Reaching up, Aaron threaded his fingers through the hand against his neck and clinging, the only point of contact that felt right and comfortable at this point.

“Wait, no, I’m not sure,” Spencer said, the shaking increasing, and Aaron immediately pulled back and away, accidentally pulling Spencer with him as the other boy refused to relinquish his grip on his hand. “I mean, I am, but I’m not and we’re drunk and we shouldn’t be drunk or you’ll be mad and I haven’t, I don’t—”

“Spence, it’s fine.” Aaron settled back, feeling sick now with the shock of what he’d _almost_ done, the press of emotions building between them, the alcohol churning in his gut and bringing a gross taste of bile and beer to the back of his throat. “I don’t feel well.” An arm slung around his back, hand rubbing his shoulder-blade, and he felt the alcohol threatening to return. “Uh oh.”

Spencer moved quicker than Aaron would have given him credit for, leaping up and only _slightly_ elbowing Aaron in the process. “Hey, let us out—Aaron’s ill!”

Aaron bolted before the door was even open, barely making it to the bathroom. Curled on the tiles, eyeing the grimy edge of the bath and making a mental note to get in here and clean before the next time he did this, he wasn’t sure if he’d just ruined something he didn’t know how to live without. The idea that he might have terrified him.

A glass of water bobbed into sight, the scuff of a shoe on tile echoing by his ear.

“Told you I handle my alcohol better,” Spencer said, and Aaron tipped his head back to find his friend smiling down at him. “You have to hydrate between alcoholic drinks. I _told_ you that.”

Not ruined then.

_Thank god,_ Aaron thought, and smiled back.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t remember how,” Aaron said morosely, gazing at the impassable barrier to his goal. It loomed in front, miles away despite being within arm’s reach if he was to simply launch himself forward with some sort of enthusiasm. “I could… _jump_.”

“Don’t jump,” Spencer replied patiently, arm slung around Aaron’s waist and keeping him upright. Warm and firm and remarkably steady considering Spencer had been pacing him all night. Warm and _Spencer_ and Aaron pressed closer, hummed happily, and tucked his head against his shorter friend’s chest. “Just step where I tell you to step.”

“Okay,” Aaron agreed placidly. He waited for Spencer to carefully begin to guide him around the outskirts of the camp-bed to Aaron’s bed, before launching himself forward just to prove he could totally do it on his own and dragging them both down in a tumble of arms and legs and Spencerness. “Oops.”

“Oops,” Spencer agreed with a sigh, trying to wriggle out from under Aaron. He squeaked as Aaron tried to help and only managed to lay heavier on top of him, hanging his head over his shoulder and groaning as the bed danced under them. “You’re squashing me.”

“You like being squashed,” Aaron reassured him, and snuggled closer, delighting in the closeness. Silence crept in, a comfortable kind of silence broken only by a half sigh/half laugh as Spencer tipped his head back to look at him. “I don’t think I can… get up there…” They both peered up at the bed.

“Probably not.” Spencer rolled carefully, hooking an arm around Aaron’s back as he did so. Aaron let himself be guided to the side, rolling obediently into that embrace and leaning back against it. Rolling with him, they were front to front, legs still tangled, shoes still on, and Spencer’s glasses were crooked on his nose. “You can sleep down here if you want, I’ll sleep in your bed.”

Aaron hummed again, and inched closer. This was the blissful kind of drunk. The empty warm kind of drunk that dragged limbs down and made everything comfortable; everything including this creaky camp-bed, the whisper of blue light sneaking in through the tear in the blind, the boy laying across from him with the crooked glasses and the flush across his thin face. “I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, because he remembered the closet, hours and years ago, and thought maybe he was taking this weird confusing mix of feelings and dragging his friend into it without his permission. “I’m just. You’re here. If I’m making you uncomfortable… I’ve just _missed_ you.”

Spencer shivered a little at the emphasis on the _missed_ , something sad and longing twisting into his expression. “I’ve missed you too,” he admitted. Aaron hungrily watched the way the words looked on his friend’s face, the way his lips shaped them, the way his eyes never wavered from their target. “Summer doesn’t feel the same. Can I have my arm back?”

Focusing on being heavy, Aaron smirked. “No,” he said, and huddled into the arm curled under him. “Then you’ll leave. Don’t leave.” The smirk vanished. He felt it go, felt it take the warm and happy away and just leave behind the cold horrible feeling of laying alone on the bathroom tiles, drunk and forgotten. “I don’t want you to leave…” Hazel eyes narrowed, a chest heaving against his, and was Spencer moving closer or was Aaron just imagining it? Wanting it?

Did he want it?

“I can’t stay,” Spencer was saying, and Aaron listened through the buzz of blood in his ears and the thump of their continued heartbeats. “Why tonight, Aaron? You’ve never… hinted to this. Not like this.”

“It’s always been like this,” Aaron mumbled, leaning forward. Pressing his forehead against Spencer’s, eyes slipping shut, just breathing him in. “I’ve never wanted you to go. Every good thing I have I have with you. You don’t understand what it’s like to want everything other than what you’ve got, when the only thing you really need to keep on going just keeps _leaving_. Why did you pull away? In the closet?”

The heart pressed against him skipped a beat. The breath paused. Came back with a _whoosh_ that was beery and wavering and hinted that maybe his friend was a little drunk too. “I’ve never…” Spencer paused. Quiet fell again, heated this time. Aaron opened his mouth to reply, opened his eyes, just in time for Spencer to tip into his embrace and crash their lips together roughly, crudely, both gasping with the shock.

They pulled away before Aaron’s brain could catch up with what just happened.

“Now I have,” Spencer said seriously. “And now we can do it again.”

Aaron sucked in a breath to try and understand what was happening, and Spencer kissed him again. And there was more heat, more panic, more hunger, and none of it was Aaron’s. He was too frozen. It was _all_ Spencer, his hands pulling Aaron closer, his teeth slipping painfully over Aaron’s lip, their noses bumping together.

A rattling, choking kind of exhale and Spencer pulled away with a wet noise, letting his head drop against Aaron’s chest and shuddering horribly. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he was babbling, the shaking increasing incrementally as Aaron lay there fixated on the last two minutes and the way Spencer’s hair stuck out strangely from a cowlick at the back. “I shouldn’t have done that. That was impulsive and rude and this will ruin—”

“Shut up, stop thinking,” Aaron said, his brain snapping into gear and sobering up at this hint of panic. “That was… nice.” _Nice_. The word sounded weak and invalid, and Spencer lifted his head to cock an eyebrow at the way it hung oddly between them. “I mean, that was… good.”

That wasn’t any better.

Apparently his words were broken, so instead he wrapped his arms around his friend and pulled him flush against him, until they were a long line of heat down the centre of the camp-bed, the mattress dipping under their weight to push them closer. This wasn’t something he’d thought of having.

That was a lie.

This was something he’d only allowed himself to consider in the darkest part of the night when he was at his loneliest. The nights when a new letter arrived, thick with his friend’s personality, and he’d read it over and over and over and count the miles between them.  

“I should go,” Spencer mumbled finally, his eyes heavy lidded and his breathing evening out. Half asleep. More than half.

“You should stay,” Aaron responded, closing his own eyes and feeling the world begin to soften at the edges, dragging him down. “Please…”

He did.

At least, for a little while.


	22. Interlude End

The weeks after passed in a giddy blur of _different_. They never talked about it—never actually decided on letting it change how they were, and, at their core, they really weren’t changed that much—but on the surface, there were new touches, new glances, new feelings. New, like the way Aaron would find his body was automatically angled towards Spencer whenever they were chatting. Like the way they’d touch each other, a brush of fingers together, whenever they passed close enough to reach, as though to reassure themselves that the other was still there. New, like not talking about it at all until Aaron walked into his room one night and Spencer was standing there saying nothing, and before either of them knew it they were kissing again; just as hazy as the first time, despite being sober now, but somehow more _imperative._

They’d wait until Sean’s snores echoed up the hall, and Spencer would slip into Aaron’s bed more nights than he didn’t. Just curled together, not really saying much, and there was nothing more comforting than knowing Aaron wasn’t going to wake up alone.

“Why are we doing this?” Spencer asked suddenly one night, laying on his back under the covers with Aaron’s head on his chest.

Aaron didn’t really have an answer for that, although he suspected. “Because it feels right,” he mumbled eventually, trying to remember not having this and really not being able to. The letters, the months apart… surely they deserved this one thing, right? It wasn’t about being gay or straight or some weird mix of in-between or _anything_. It was just… things could be shit and he was done with it being shit. They fucking _deserved_ this one small happiness. “Don’t overthink it.”

Spencer shifted, bringing his mouth down to press against Aaron’s hair. Aaron shivered at the gentle touch, sliding his hand up to rest where Spencer’s heart beat slowly. “Because we’re lonely?” Spencer continued, mulishly determined to ruin everything good they clawed back from the crap. “Because we don’t have enough life experience yet to make educated choices about this? Because we’re dangerously co-dependant on each other for any scrap of affection? Because—”

Aaron covered his mouth, ignoring the angry glare the other boy angled down his way. “Because I fucking want to?” he snapped, irritated again. “Because you mean fucking everything to me, okay? And there is _nothing_ wrong with this. I’m not pushing you into anything—you’d tell me if I was. You’re not pushing me. We’re not taking it too far, we’re not losing our heads, we’re just…”

“Lonely,” Spencer repeated, sliding down the bed and wrapping his arms around Aaron’s chest, his eyes wide without his glasses on and focused on nothing; focused on three days from now when they’d take him back to his empty dorm room and leave Aaron alone in his empty life.

And there was nothing Aaron could really say to that.

“Lonely,” he agreed, and hugged his friend close until they both fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

Aaron walked Spencer up the hall, leaving Sean in the car with a cigarette and a new music tape he’d recorded the night before just for the trip. College students barely spared them a glance, walking past them in groups or alone, chatting together or silent with headphones over their ears and tape decks in their hands.

“Everyone is so _old_ ,” Aaron said, and Spencer smiled. “Man, you look even shrimpier in comparison, kid.”

“You’re not that much taller than me,” Spencer said, unlocking a door and slipping in, bag bumping against the doorframe. Aaron followed him, into a room that was eighty percent books stacked haphazardly against every wall and on every surface, the rest of the room taken up by a neatly made bed and what looked like half a chem lab set neatly up on the only cleared floor space.

Aaron looked around, grinned at how _Spencer_ it was, and then looked again. And fell silent.

One wall was entirely made up of neatly pinned laminated papers, the bed shoved away so that whoever was laying in there could roll over and read the letters at a glance just by flicking on the ancient lamp beside the bed. Aaron stepped closer, glanced at Spencer for permission. His friend just watched, mute, waiting. Turning back to the wall, Aaron examined it.

Their letters. His letters. Dozens of his letters, all neatly pinned, all displayed proudly.

“I like reading them sometimes,” Spencer mumbled, head down and gaze locked on his sneakers. “This way I can.” It was the first time Aaron had ever been in Spencer’s world, his home, and it was a shock to find just how much of him had encroached upon the space despite this.

“Come here,” Aaron said, his heart choking him and eyes stinging at the reminder this was another goodbye. That he’d walk out of here, leave Spencer behind, and it would be months and months before they saw each other again. Before they spoke, or touched, or smiled in _just_ that way that made Aaron’s chest feel warm and tight. Spencer stepped closer, eyes still down, and Aaron pulled him close and found his lips, kissing him clumsily, still unsure of quite how to do this. They’d only had weeks to learn each other, and it wasn’t enough time. “I don’t want to go.”

“I know,” Spencer said into his mouth, neither moving away, his eyes closed and glasses foggy from Aaron’s body heat. “It’s not fair. We didn’t have enough time.”

Aaron held him close in that long goodbye, looking around his room and imagining the books mixed with his football gear, mixed with his own books and belongings. Their lives together, as friends or something more, it didn’t matter. Just… together. “We will though,” Aaron promised him, tilting Spencer’s chin up and stooping slightly to reach; kissing his mouth, his temple, brushing his lips over the furrow of worry that curled around the line of his cheek when he frowned. “Not so long from now, I promise. When have I ever let you down?”

Spencer thought about that a long moment. “Never,” he said finally, the furrow vanishing as his mouth quirked into a wide, loved smile. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Not ever,” Aaron assured him.

 

* * *

 

The drive home was silent. Aaron hunched against the door, pressing his cheek to the glass, making sure Sean couldn’t see his face. The music covered any noise he might make, he was sure his brother wasn’t observant enough to notice his body language, and every mile marker they passed was another reminder of what they were leaving behind.

_Snick_ and the music switched off. Silence fell, heavy and waiting, and Aaron swallowed back his misery and braced himself.

“You know,” Sean said suddenly, fingers rapping out a broken beat on the steering wheel. “I get every fourth weekend off… there’s no reason we can’t drive up here more often if we have the money…” Aaron didn’t answer. There was every reason. They never had the money, Spencer had his studies, he wanted it _too_ much. “Aaron?”

The glass was hot and sticky against his cheek, wet on his skin. It sucked at his skin when he lifted his face away, scrubbing his sleeve over his eyes and mouth, snuffing grossly. It was a horrible sound, and carried throughout the car. “‘M fine,” he mumbled, sinking into his chair and staring resolutely at his knees. “It’s fine, Sean. It’s not so long until next summer…”

“Spencer’s a good kid,” Sean continued, his voice cracking. He was holding something back. Testing the waters. Aaron froze, dismay twisting cold and biting into his belly and his bones. _No… he doesn’t **know**. He can’t know. We were so **careful**_. “Real polite. Seems… fond of you.”

_No no no no_.

Saying it didn’t matter was one thing. But being gay or whatever he was wasn’t _normal_ , it wasn’t what people did, and if Sean knew this he’d hate him or tease him or make him go back to his dad and his dad would—

“Aaron, seriously, look at me, would you?”

Aaron did. Slowly and guardedly and he knew his eyes were swollen and his face was painted with horror. Sean glanced at him, swallowed hard, his own eyes widening.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Sean snapped, fingers snapping tight around the wheel. “Stop it, _fuck_. You’re looking at me like…”

“Like what?” Aaron choked out, his head thumping.

“Like I’m Dad.” Silence. Shocked silence. Aaron coughed and thought he might tear with the sound, like something in him was ripping in two and baring him to the world. “I’m not. Whatever you have going on, I don’t care. I mean, I _do_ care. But it doesn’t change anything, okay? You’re my bro. I just want you safe and happy, whatever. You’re still just a kid though, and Spencer’s _smart_ but he doesn’t know shit about the world and what it’s like. Maybe… rethink it a little.” Sean pulled the car to the dusty verge, shoulders bowed forward, and his expression was sick. Pallid and worried, his long hair brushing his eyes.

Aaron felt cold. “What are you trying to say?”

“People are cruel, kids are crueller,” Sean replied, and Aaron knew that was true. “I know he wasn’t sleeping alone, Aaron. I’m not that stupid. Whatever, it’s your life, but… he’s really far away, and we can’t protect him there. And I don’t think either of you are old enough to know how to handle the kind of hate you’ll cop for it.”

“We’re just friends.” True enough, mostly. “And we know how crap people can be. We’re fine, Sean. Spencer’s fine. He can protect himself.” Aaron had showed him how, after all.

Sean’s eyebrows lifted. He flicked the indicator on, checking the rear-view, attention back on the road. “Yeah?” he asked, mouth curling into a smile his eyes didn’t mirror, “Don’t think I’ve ever looked at any of my friends the way you look at him.”

_Huh?_ “Like how?” he snapped, not feeling miserable anymore, just angry and restless and furious at the world and his brother and the faceless hate that felt relentlessly turned towards him.

“Like there’s nowhere else you’d rather be looking.”

There was really nothing more he could say to that. Back against the window, he glared his fury out into the world, hating every orange-tipped tree.

Fall was coming, and there was no stopping it.


	23. This Is Not the End...

Dear Spencer,

How’s semester going? The apartment feels so empty without you. Got kind of used to you nerding up the place! Sean’s working tons and he has a new girlfriend, so I barely see him.

Hey, I know this is weird, but Sean said some stuff to me that got me thinking. He knows about ~~us what we did~~ things. About us being what we are to each other. He’s worried about it—not because he thinks it’s weird or gross but he’s worried that others will be cruel. I can look after myself, but maybe you should be careful not to tell anyone, okay? Or just be **really** careful who you tell.

I’m not ashamed of what we did. ~~I think about it all~~ I’m not ashamed of you. I want to be more one day. ~~Do more~~ I just want you to be safe. Promise you’ll be safe?? And if anything happens TELL ME and we’ll come help you.

On a less weird note, I was reading a book the other day and thought of you—

[Page 1 of 2]

Aaron Hotchner,

09/26/1997

 

* * *

 

_Finally finished reworking this bit. Sorry it took so long, I thought we’d have finished it while you were down!_

_Aaron Hotchner, 15 yr. old._

To find her, he had to lose himself. Since he’d never really found himself, this was turning out to be easier than expected.

First, he found his family. They were eating breakfast at the dining room table; a man made of being angry, a woman who looked ghostlike beside him, and a girl he suspected was his sister who stared at him oddly when he walked into the room in his too-small clothes and his overlong hair.

“Could you drive me somewhere far away?” he asked the man politely. “Please?”

“What are you doing?” whispered the carpet below, pulling worriedly against the nails holding them down. “Don’t leave us.”

“Don’t leave us,” repeated the doors, swinging sadly on their hinges.

“Everyone leaves,” spat the lightbulb, and flickered off. The family never did get that particular one working again.

“Uh okay,” said the man, staring at this boy, this familiar boy, sure that he was both someone very familiar and yet somehow completely unknown. “Where to?”

And the boy thought that that was a very simple question, but that the answer was more complicated than he knew how to voice. “Somewhere we don’t know,” he said finally, and the man seemed, strangely, to understand.

They drove and they drove and they drove and the boy sat in the backseat in clothes that fit just right—the woman had them for him, had given them to him with a broken whisper of a smile and said _I bought these for someone who looked just like you, a long time ago_ —the girl alongside him.

“You’re my brother,” the girl said, kicking her feet against the back of their mother’s chair. Two of her teeth were missing and her ears stuck out from her head. The boy touched his own ears, surprised to find they did too. “You talk to the bath.”

“I talk to everything unnoticed,” the boy corrected her, running his tongue over his teeth and trying to remember what it felt like when they wobbled. “It’s my magic.”

The girl was quiet for a long time, until the world outside the window was dark and scary and completely new. Soon, the boy suspected. Soon they’d find the lost. “You never talked to me,” his sister said finally, sadly, and stopped kicking, “and I was always unnoticed.”

He didn’t really know how to answer this, and the car was stopping.

“I’m sorry,” he said instead of anything helpful, and climbed out. “Thank you.”

Already, they were looking away from him. It was hard to keep their focus on him, and when he did he could barely hear everything else whispering around him. When his mom touched his hand, the doors stood silent. When his dad frowned down, the carpet was mute. When he held his sister by the hand to show her to the dusty attic, the window showed blue and clouds and nothing more. So, he watched them drive away and didn’t really feel all that sad about it. Magic was worth more than family, he suspected. Maybe he was wrong, but he wasn’t willing to find out just yet.

And, when he turned around, there was grass and trees and a single lonely cow, and there was a door. It didn’t whee or cough or say a thing, and he touched the handle and breathed in deeply.

Then he opened it.

And stepped inside.

 

* * *

 

[Page 4 of 8]

—I didn’t think what you sent was weird. I understand what Sean is talking about. People can be awful. I have one person I talk to about stuff when I’m worried, besides you of course. Do you mind if I talk to him? I think he’d know about all this, and whether we should be telling people anything or not.

You said what we are to each other. What are we to each other? I sat here for hours trying to work out how to word this, but I think I just need to ask.

I really really like you, Aaron. You’re my best friend and there isn’t a day I don’t think about you. If you want to be more, I want that too. Whatever more you want, I want it too. If that’s an option… I understand if you’re hesitant. I know we’re far away and there are things that that will make difficult… but we’ve always been far away, and it’s never stopped us before.

[Page 8 of 8]

I really love the direction you’re taking the story! Your writing has gotten really good—the bits about the family was so morose and sort of… melancholic. Like, there’s this family there that the boy can’t reach out to, and he’s like a faded memory to them. He’s been there all along, always there, but they struggle to reach him. I don’t know why, but that just, it really stuck with me.

Sending the next bit with this! I’m going to work on it tonight after I get home from class; I have to stay late to work on the final stage of a research project we began last semester. My prof. is really pushing for me to get fast-tracked to PhD!

I miss you. Sometimes I think I hear you in my dreams, but I wake up alone.

Yours, Spencer.

10/15/1997

(PS, I’m 15 now! I feel so _old_ )

(PPS, I havet sent this yet and I didnt know where else to say it. I dont regret you. US. ~~I regret talking about us~~ **Theres nothing wrong with us.** I miss kissiing you youre fantastic at it. Im sorry for not telling you that and)

 

* * *

 

_Spencer Reid, 15 yr. old._

 

Halcyon heard the door open.

She’d _never_ heard the door open before. Not once. Actually, she wasn’t entirely sure there’d even been a door there before, or at least not one that she was consciously aware of.

She stood and walked towards the new-maybe-old-door, and found her boy standing there. Framed in the light streaming in from the outside, his clothes fitting properly and his eyes wide with surprise; he was _here_ and there and taking up all the space in her brain.

“Hello,” he said, and held out his hand. Unsure entirely why he was holding his hand out, she took it in her own and held on loosely. His skin was warm, his palm soft, and he gripped her hand tightly and shook it, before letting go. “I was looking for you.”

And she blinked, because she’d never been _found_ before. All of a sudden, the world felt a little smaller, a little warmer. The attic not quite so small, everything not quite as sad. “Oh,” she said meekly, and looked around. She’d never been meek before, not once in her whole life, but any brave person would be meek when they were found for the first time. It was the kind of event that inspired meekness. “Hello. Um. No-One.”

And the boy smiled, a smile that made her stomach twist and her hands shake and her knees wobble, and said, “I think I’ll need a new name now. This one has done what I need it to.”

Halcyon nodded. That made sense. And she knew exactly what she wanted to call him.

She took his hand, not to repeat the strange shaking motion from before, but to hold him close and step towards him. Towards the outside. Towards the world she’d left.

“Mine,” she whispered, closing her eyes, feeling meek still and bared open, like the boy was looking right through her and holding a conversation with her unnoticed heart.

“If you want,” he said, and led her into the winter.

Together.

 

* * *

 

Dear Spencer,

Ahaha what was with your PPS?? Were you drunk again? Why? You _hated_ being drunk when you were at mine. Remember how hungover we were? You said you were never going to drink again and you barely had ANY.

I’m not going to be nice and pretend I didn’t read it though. You’re absolutely right. THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH US. And of course I’m a fantastic kisser!!! ~~I’ve had lots of practise~~ Err maybe ignore that bit. Or don’t. That was clumsy, I don’t mean Ive had LOTS of practise because I haven’t, but Ive had… some? I kissed Jessica a few times back home in Manassas and there was a boy here before you came down… I wasn’t sure what I was feeling. I was all twisted up inside and having all these weird thoughts and most of them were about YOU and I didn’t think I could have those kinds of thoughts for a guy so I… experimented I guess. You’re a scientist. You get that, right? You’re not mad? I don’t want you to be mad and Im not bragging, I just thought maybe this is the kind of stuff we should know about each other. And I a little bit ~~want to know~~ am curious about you because man you kiss amazingly and you’ve definitely practised. You don’t have to tell me if you’re not comfortable. I probably shouldn’t be this open but… we’ve never hidden stuff before? I don’t know.

I know what you are to me. You’re my best friend, and that comes first, beyond all the kissing (no matter how good) and anything that follows it.

But if you want to be more, I’m 10000% behind that.

Holy hell, the story! I NEED TO TALK ABOUT THE STORY BECAUSE I HAVE SO MUCH TO SAY—

[Page 1 of 5]

Yours always, Aaron

10/30/1997

 

* * *

 

Spencer,

I dont know how to write this but it s my birthday and ive might have gotten a bit stupid or maybe im always stupid. I know im stupid because I never said this before because I know you and I know you fereak out when things get feely but im stupid crazy in love with you and I think I always have been I think of Rhosgobel and you and our fort and I wish we were back there. Remember when we fell asleep in the storm and woke up in each others arms? I wish we could do that agaagin and this time Id kiss you in the storm and more and I dream of it and wish we could do it again

Im not gonna send this because Im stupid drunk and stupid and im going to be thinking about you tonight when im in bed alone and I know you think about me too and you have no idea how crazy that makes me

Stupid in love with you, Aaron

 

* * *

 

Aaron,

I don’t know. I want to be more, but I don’t think we should be. It would be wrong. I was incorrect before. We shouldn’t do that, it could get you into trouble and I don’t ever want to be a reason why you get into trouble. You want to study law after school and you’ll never get into that career with a boyfriend, and what about your family? We should just stay friends. We’ll always be friends, right, and maybe that’s enough?? It would be selfish of me to entice you into something more when you might not even be sure of who you are yet or what you want. We’re so young, why pigeonhole ourselves now?

I understand if this makes you mad, but I feel like it needs to be said. I’m sorry if I led you on or confused you. Still friends?

Happy birthday. 16 huh. Did you know 16 is the smallest number with exactly five divisors? There are also sixteen pawns in a chess set, and each player begins with exactly sixteen pieces!

Regards, S. W. Reid

12/05/1997

 

* * *

 

Spencer, what the hell?

Your last letter didn’t even _sound_ like you. Where did you learn all that bullshit? It’s BULLSHIT all of it. You just sounded like you were parroting what someone else told you and what the **fuck**?? You’re **not** enticing me into anything, I know who I am and what I want and that’s YOU. I hope you are copying someone else because why would you even say that we’re wrong????? WE’RE NOT. ~~That really hurt to read~~

Don’t bother replying to this until you’ve spat out the REASONS NOT TO BE GAY pamphlet you’ve clearly fucking swallowed. Friend don’t hurt each other, and telling your friend that how they feel is wrong and shaming them for it HURTS.

I do want to hear from you again, don’t get me wrong, but I’m angry and upset right now. We’re still friends. We always will be. But actions have consequences. I guess you’re stressed because of that big presentation you’ve got coming up and beginning your PhD, but that’s no excuse.

I’m sorry. Give me some time to calm down.

Aaron.

 

* * *

 

I’m sorry Im sorry Im sorry, I panicked—you know I panic! Aaron, I never meant to hurt you!

Can I come see you? I’ll catch a bus. I can pay for it, I have money. Would Sean mind? Please, I just want to make things better. I’m confused and scared and I don’t know what’s going on and I really need to see you. I need to ask you something in person and apologise properly for everything and stuff you don’t know. Please let me come to you please

If what I said was wrong, Im sorry. I don’t know what’s right. I don’t know. I have all these knowledge and brains and right now Im so lost.

Please

Yours, Spencer

02/01/1998

 

* * *

 

I don’t think that’s a good idea right now. You’re stressed about college, I’m stressed about school. We’re both hurt and lashing out and it’s probably not a good idea to get together while emotions are so high. It’s not long until summer. We’ll come get you then, and figure things out then, okay? I promise. That gives us both time to calm down.

I still really care for you and always will.

I’ll see you in summer

Yours, Aaron

02/13/1998


	24. ... But This Is.

Spencer,

I’ve sent you so many letters and you haven’t replied to any… I missed you during summer. Are you still mad? Is that why you didn’t visit?

The last letter I got from you was so upset and scared and I don’t want that to be the last thing we say to each other. Please, can’t you send anything? Just **anything**. Call me a jerk, call me names, I don’t care. SHOUT at me if you need. You can tell me how much you hate me—I’d be okay with that if it means you’re talking to me again!

Happy Birthday. I know you didn’t want a present, but I got you this. Hope you like it. It reminded me of Rhosgobel.

I really miss you. I’m sorry if I did something wrong.

Please tell me you’re okay.

Love, Aaron

10/08/1998

 

**USPS**

**WE WERE UNABLE TO DELIVER THIS ITEM BECAUSE:**

ADDRESS INCOMPLETE

ADDRESS INACCESSABLE

** ADDRESSEE GONE AWAY **

REFUSED

NOT CALLED FOR

NO SUCH ADDRESS

Date: 10/20/1998


	25. November, 2000

“I’m sticking to the floor,” Aaron complained, lifting his foot to illustrate that he was doing just that.

“I’m sticking to you,” Kate muttered, clinging to his side. “This place is _rank_.”

She wasn’t wrong. The beat was throbbing, the people around them blank-eyed and gyrating along; a writhing mass of sweat and heat. Aaron blinked sweat out of his eyes and curled his arm around her shoulders, feeling kinda bad. This wasn’t her scene—not really his either—and only his practised charm had gotten them through the door when she’d nervously held out her fake ID for inspection.

“There are back rooms,” Kyle called to them, bouncing on his heels. This _was_ his scene, and he was wild with the thrill of the night. A bottle in either hand and a joint hanging out of his mouth as he waited for Keith to finish flicking split drink from his jeans. “Hurry up, I look like a tool.”

“You are a tool,” Aaron told him, shaking his head as Kyle gestured for him to take the joint before he fucking swallowed it from the people jostling him. “No. You brought it in here. Your problem, not mine. I’m not getting my ass kicked for carrying something I don’t even smoke.”

“No team spirit!” his friend hollered. Aaron felt Kate shiver slightly as another man shoved past them. His pupils were huge in the strobe lighting that reflected from clothes and skin and from the cigarettes visible as red glows in the dark-blue gloom.

“Come on,” Aaron coaxed her, spotting the rooms that led away from the throng. “We’ll grab our drinks and head into there. They’ll be quieter.”

“Hardly,” she grumbled, weaving the way through the horde to the bar, her fingers tight around his. Aaron knew they’d only ended up here, away from the more-well known locales, not because of ‘charm’ like Kyle kept trying to say, but probably more because everyone was so off their tits they’d be able to score easily. The whole thing left him feeling unsettled and anxious, on edge, and he knew Kate felt the same. Knew her eyes were following her sister as Jenny vanished into the crowd with Keith. By the time any of their group made their way back to them, they’d probably be smashed. “Sorry for dragging you out with this lot,” Kate was apologising, as they pressed into the smoky back room, coughing slightly at the thick scent of nicotine and weed layered in the upholstery and manky carpeting. Three pool tables were lined against the back wall, a couple of poker tables to the side, the rest of the space made up of red booths with tacky plastic-coated tables and stiff curtains that could be pulled to hide the seats within. Aaron eyed the tables, eyed the stained booths, and shuddered at the idea of touching any of it. “I didn’t think he’d be such a fuckwit tonight.”

“Your boyfriend,” Aaron grumbled under his breath, eyes burning, watching as the group by one of the pool tables began to meander away. “Great taste, by the way.”

“Like you can talk,” she snapped back. They found stools, dragged them to the table and managed to lift the cue from the man staggering away. The wood pulled at his skin as he rubbed his knuckles tentatively across the edge, clearly having never seen a damp rag in its life. “Best of three?”

He nodded, setting up. Glum that this was it. Nineteenth birthday, and he was spending it being dragged from miserable DC nightclub to miserable DC nightclub as Kate bickered with her boyfriend and the others got increasingly off their faces. And there wasn’t enough alcohol in the world to haze this experience into something palatable, although, as he steadily worked his way through several bitter beers, it did make the revulsion of his surroundings sink away slightly.

The night hammered on, the air getting thicker. He won the first two, lost the last as the thick smoke began to cloud his judgement. Played her again for threes; lost both despite her glass hitting empty more often than full. The others were nowhere to be seen. A couple of times, Kate went to weave unsteadily away to look for her dropkick boyfriend. Both times, Aaron coaxed her back, ignoring how crappy the atmosphere in there was. Sickly aware that Kyle, knowing him, was probably finding his own amusement out there, and it really wasn’t something he wanted Kate walking out on.

Not tonight. They’d deal with it, _again_ , another night.

_I miss New York,_ he thought, not for the first time, and leaned back on his cue to try and gather his wits, scanning the room. College was grating on him, the courses tough, the professors demanding, and every chance he tried to grasp to relax ended up like _this_. With him mediating his friends’ bullshit squabbles. Eyes lingering on the poker tables, there was a crowd pressing around them, the drunkest of the lot leaning over the table and shouting. He looked away quickly as a broad-shouldered, rough-faced man jerked his gaze up to meet his and sneered. That was a corner to avoid, then. A girl fell out of the booth nearby, crawling to her feet and stumbling away, leaving the curtain open. Aaron glanced automatically in, watching numbly through his headache and aching head as the inhabitants ducked low over the line on the table.

“Oh great,” Kate hissed, glancing over. “Knew there’d be coke everywhere here. _Great_. Can we just go?” She looked miserable, glass empty again, face flushed, and Aaron looked at her and then straight past her, a flicker of movement over her shoulder catching his attention. The crowd at the tables had gone quiet, a man standing with his shoulders bowed as the rough man from before pushed against him.

_Not my problem_ , Aaron thought, seeing the skinnier man’s back hit the wall, chair cracking on the ground. Fight coming. And, _time to go_ , as the first punch was thrown and the man dropped.

Grabbing her hand, he dragged her against the surge of people trying to get a good look, half screaming because they could, half shrieking for them to _hit him harder, come on_ , and a small subset trying to calm the rest down. The crowd pushed back, despite their intentions, and Aaron swore and let himself be carried with it, spotting a fire exit door propped open by a ratty brick to try and let some air in and diving for it. The crowd pushed between them, the fight working its way to the door even as Aaron tried to do the same, barely making it before people began to bustle around the exit. They dived through, Kate stumbling and hitting the asphalt on her bare knees, gasping. The door banged shut behind them, the sound of people cut off as abruptly as if a switch had been flicked. Cool air burst into his lungs, clearing the smoke and the shit from his chest, and he took three breaths and sighed with relief, the alley around them dipping and weaving and doubling over in an attempt to pull his feet out from under him.

“Thanks,” Kate said, standing and leaning over to check her bloodied knees, before promptly staggering to the garbage bags and dumpsters and loudly puking into them. Aaron winced, his stomach lurching in sympathy, following her and tugging a lock of sweaty mouse-brown hair out of splatter range. “Urgh, oh god, don’t look, Aaron—”

“S’ fine,” he mumbled, looking away to give her privacy. A drunk stumbled past the mouth of the alley, pausing, and Aaron could hear him loudly reliving himself against the brick. This was it. No more. No more fucked up weekends doing _this_. He couldn’t stand it, and it was messing with Kate’s head too. _No more._ But he knew he’d be back here next week, or at one just like it. What choice did he have?

The door slammed open, a man hurtling out and hitting the brick wall opposing the door with a yelp, slithering to the ground. Aaron yanked Kate up, pulling her to the mouth of the alley, as men poured from the door and surrounded the fallen one. The fight had followed them, and they needed to be…

“You little shit,” snarled one of them, and even walking away Aaron heard the meaty _thwap_ of foot meeting gut, the gagging choking rasp torn from the kickee’s mouth. “Cheating _cunt_.”

Fuck.

“Keep going, stay in the light on the main road,” he murmured, shoving Kate forward, and her brown eyes widened, slipping past him to look back at the scene behind them. He passed her his phone and wallet, knowing he’d probably lose both if this went badly. “I’ll meet you out there. Keep your phone on you.”

“Aaron, don’t be a hero,” she pleaded, but he wasn’t, not really. It wasn’t heroic to do what you had to.

He wasn’t the kind of person to walk away from five on one.

He turned back and walked resolutely towards the cluster. Kate’s footsteps raced away, likely going for help. His own footsteps he kept quiet, soft on the dirty ground, until he was close enough that he could smell the blood and spit in the air. Glanced down at the person huddled on the floor, found himself looking into wide hazel eyes that stared at him like he was a ghost. Looked back up, at the white expanse of a sweaty neck and bristling crew-cut. “Excuse me,” he said politely, and when the man turned around with a grunt, he broke his nose.

Five on two didn’t exactly end well either, but it ended well enough.

 

* * *

 

Everything hurt. Kate yammered, Keith was swearing, and Kyle was whimpering about his broken hand. Aaron stared at the sky above, the asphalt cold and stinking under him, and thought glumly about getting up.

“I’m calling for help—hey!” Jenny was saying, and Aaron heard a scuff of movement next to him as the other man leapt upright with complete disregard for his health. “Wait, you need to see a doctor—you’re bleeding!”

Aaron heaved himself over, onto his knees, ignoring Kate’s gasp, watching the man walk unevenly away without so much as a thank you. Quick, limping stride, hurried; as though he was running from something. Someone.

“How hurt is he?” Aaron said, words thick around a swollen mouth, and Kate shot him a distressed look. Hurt enough, then, for the nursing student to worry.

Damnit.

“Urgh,” he grunted, his gut screaming as he stood and jogged after him, trying to wipe the sticky wet from his mouth and only smearing it worse with blood from his knuckles.

“Aaron!” floated after him, but he kept going doggedly on, until he rounded the corner and found the man stopped, his back to him and head tilted down and to the side. Waiting. Wide shoulders bowed forward, one arm curled around a slender stomach, brown hair tangled and over-long. Something in Aaron’s chest tightened at it, a reminder of something been and gone, and he shoved it all aside.

“You’re hurt,” he said, stupidly, because _hi pot, here’s the kettle_. “A thanks would be nice.”

“Thanks,” mumbled the man, and didn’t move. Aaron stepped closer, eyeing his neatly pressed slacks, the ironed shirt, the careful fold to his collar. The black coat folded over one arm looked warm, well-made. Not exactly the club’s usual clientele, even when splattered with grime and blood and spit. Spit. They’d spat on him. For some reason, this made Aaron _furiously_ protective. “Is that all you wanted?” Aaron stepped forward again, and the man looked forward and away sharply, almost violently.

“Not gonna get checked out?” Aaron said quietly, because there was something disappointing about this. A man this neat, this put-together, in that club… _drugs_. “No point in me getting my ass kicked for you, only for you to go home and die from internal bleeding or something.”

“Or something,” the man replied pertly, a smile in his voice despite the slur from what Aaron suspected was a split lip. “That was unnecessary, what you did. I’m grateful. But I brought it on myself, you didn’t. I was clumsy.”

“They said you were cheating.”

“I was. Clumsily.” The hand curled over his stomach drifted down, slipped into the hanging pocket of the coat and withdrew a wad of notes. Aaron twitched, staring at it. “Their drunken attempt at ‘teaching me a lesson’ also allowed me to regain my winnings. Here. My thanks.” The bundle hit the ground in front of Aaron, unrolling in a shuffle of green. Aaron stared at it before tearing his eyes away and jerking them up to stare at the man as he began to walk away.

His brain caught up, sending him hurtling forward to grab the money and pound after the man, fingers roughly digging into the thin bicep and yanking him around to shout, “You fucking _encouraged_ them to beat you, didn’t you, you fucking idio—”

And he stopped. Stared. Reeled.

“Hi, Aaron,” the man said softly, tongue flicking over the oozing cut on his mouth. Not a man at all. Not even close. Taller than Aaron now, sure. But not a man. “You look… exactly the same.”

And Aaron said nothing, just stared dumbly at Spencer as he tugged his arm gently free and hung them awkwardly by his side, a lock of hair flicked messily into his eyes and his thin face downcast, mouth a tight line. Eighteen years old, Aaron calculated quickly, and looking every inch like he had the first time they’d met.

Except, not really. Thinner now, somehow. Pinched. Eyes ringed in the purple that denoted not enough sleep, clothes neat and quality but awkwardly tailored to a small frame. No glasses. The glasses were gone. Where had his glasses gone?

“You don’t,” Aaron said finally, blinking himself awake and feeling out of place, lost, unsure of anything really. Questions clamoured on his tongue, choking him, and he couldn’t think to work out which one to ask first. Or at all. He felt sick, heart hammering, blood spinning, and knew he was probably about to eat dirt. “What the fuck.” Not really what he’d planned to ask, but, hey, it was something.

“You’re falling,” Spencer said, watching him go down.

“I’m sitting,” Aaron corrected, and smacked away the hand held out to him. “It’s voluntary.” It wasn’t. _Ow_ , he thought miserably as his tailbone smacked the curb, dropping his head between his knees in a rush of giddy/drunk/shocked.

A shadow passed over him. Aaron blinked up, found himself face to face with black slacks and a scuffed silver belt buckle denoting a stylized _VU_. Tacky and entirely _not_ Spencer-y, and he looked further up, face flushing, realizing he was also staring directly into the man’s crotch. Spencer looked down at him, face blank behind the bruising, pupils reacting easily to the light. _Not high_ , Aaron thought, and choked out a laugh because _of course he’s not_. This was _Spencer_. Spencer, without the soft weight of childhood smoothing the edges of his face. Spencer with sharp cheekbones and arched brows, his eyes dark and clear. Spencer with a coiling scent to his wrists when he reached down to help Aaron up, his cologne dark and musky and going straight between Aaron’s hips in a hot rush of _remember this feeling_. Oh, he remembered alright. Remembered the fear and the loss and the hurt.

And he let himself be pulled upright, then stepped away.

“We need to talk,” he stammered out, nowhere near as calm as he’d hoped to sound. “Now.” Spencer cocked his head to the side, tossing his chin tightly to flick hair from his eyes, and the heat jolted again. _You got so pretty_ , Aaron thought wildly, eyeing those lips, those eyes, the shape of his jaw. _What the fuck._

“Okay,” said Spencer with a smile, _his_ smile. Warm despite the bloodied mouth and purpling cheek. Familiar despite the years between them. Happy, despite the last things they’d ever said to each other. “Your friends are looking for you.”

They were. _Aaron_ called out from the alley, frantic. He swore. Kate had his wallet, his phone. He could get them—they could go to a diner, something, _anything_ , sit down in the light and the cheer and fix everything. Fix everything they’d broken. “Wait here,” he said, holding both hands up in a coaxing motion, and Spencer nodded and slung his own hands into his pockets, settled his posture into a waiting pose. “I’ll grab my stuff and come back, and then we can talk, okay?” Another nod. _Sure_ , said after him in a bright tone, hardly slurred at all. Aaron could swear he ever heard a quiet _happy birthday,_ but when he looked back before ducking around the corner, Spencer was silently watching.

And, when Aaron jogged back to the spot where he’d left him, he was gone.

“Aaron?” Kate panted, skidding to a stop next to where Aaron was staring helplessly at the empty street. “Who are you going with? Where’s your friend?”

A swallow that hurt. Familiar pain, guilt, grief, misery.

“We’re not friends,” Aaron snapped, and turned away.


	26. May, 2001

“It’s my birthday and we’re going somewhere _nice_.” Kate lobbed the magazine at Simon, loose flyers scattered across the kitchen at the impact. Aaron picked at one, scanning the events listed, tearing one corner as it attempted to stick to the tacky surface of their share-house’s counter. “Somewhere semi-classy, at least. Please?”

“I mean, you’re looking at a list of clubs that still advertise by flyer,” Simon pointed out, paging through the magazine at the glossy lists of ‘places to be’. “How nice are you hoping to get?”

Aaron thought of the club they’d ended up at for his birthday, with people doing lines of coke in the open, the floors thick with grime and peeling, Spencer… “Nicer than where Kyle used to drag us,” he suggested, abandoning the flyer and moving into the living room to flop carefully onto the couch, avoiding the spring that jabbed into unsuspecting backs. “Pass.”

Simon dropped the magazine onto his face, splaying his legs and leaning back overtop him to peer down as Aaron fumbled it open to an index of advertisements. “Yeah well,” Simon was saying, lifting his voice so Kate could hear as she drifted down the hall to the bedrooms, “Kyle was a smackhead and you know it. Flip the page, Aaron. Shit, shit, shit, overpriced, shit, alright, shit—”

Moodily, Aaron let the book fall open and looked up. “Shouldn’t Kate being doing this?” he said, glancing back at the page. And then back again.

“Overpriced,” Simon said, nodding at the advertisement Aaron was staring at. “You know she has no taste. We’ll end up doing tequila off of strippers’ stomachs if she picks. It’ll be like a throwback to before she threw Kyle out on his arse.”

The logo was silver on a purple background so dark it was almost black. The kind of stylish that just barely bordered on being garish. Nice in its place, tacky out of it. It looked great in the magazine, especially when paired with the elegant font underneath declaring that a _bottle event_ was occurring this weekend. But Aaron had seen it on a belt buckle on a man who couldn’t pull off gaudy.

“What’s this place?” Aaron asked, folding the magazine back and showing Simon the _VU_ logo with shaking hands, his head humming as his thoughts raced. “Can we go there?”

Months. Months with no sign of him, no matter how many crappy clubs they got dragged to, no matter how many gambling rooms Aaron had taken to scoping out just in case. And here—finally—some kind of lead. _Do I want to find him again?_ Aaron wondered, as Simon took the magazine and skimmed the page. _He left. He doesn’t want to talk to me, clearly. Why am I bothering?_

“Velvet Underground,” Simon said, Kate leaning over his shoulder. “Overpriced as hell, but nice enough. Bouncers are strict though—our IDs might not be enough to get us in.”

“Jenny doesn’t like that place,” Kate said, daubing a tissue against her mouth and leaving sticky red marks on it. “Says never trust a nightclub that has more VIP rooms than public and still sells cheap beer for college students over the bar.”

Aaron swallowed. He never picked. Never. And it was Kate’s birthday…

She was looking at him. He thought of Spencer. “Do you think…” he began, and trailed off, uncertain. What was he _doing_?

“Let’s check it out,” she said after a beat, and smiled. “Hey, it won’t be the worst place we’ve ended up.”

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t. There was nice carpeting leading smoothly into the polished dancefloor, the bar-top a bright white marble inlaid with black. The lighting was warm where it needed to be, the strobe lighting kept to the dance floor with a clever assortment of dividing walls and mirrors. The booths were private without being seedy, the clientele a strange mix of wealth and college students.

Simon got them in. Not for the first time, Aaron thanked his and Kate’s lucky stars that they’d gotten sick of the residence hall at about the same time and decided to apply for the _housemates wanted_ ad posted by the eclectic graduate student. Despite the run-down apartment they shared between four and the crappy second-hand furniture, Aaron knew Simon came from money and his clothes reflected that. It got them past the bouncers, at least.

“I’ll get the drinks,” Aaron said, and walked to the bar slowly. Unsure what he was going to find, unsure what he was looking. Finding it. The bartender was tall, dark-haired, dressed in the same almost-black purple button-down with the _VU_ logo splashed across the breast and a black bowtie completing the look. When he stepped back to get Aaron’s drinks from the open bottles lined along the counter behind him, Aaron glanced to his waist. The black slacks, the belt with a walkie hanging from it next to the now familiar silver buckle. “Nice belt,” Aaron called over the steady bass leaking from the other room. “Where can I get one of those?”

“Sorry, mate,” the bartender said with a laugh, sliding his drinks to him and taking his money. _Ethan_ said his nametag. A wide, easy smile, eyes creased at the corners. A man who smiled a lot, smiled readily. “Employees only.”

_Employees only_.

“Of course,” Aaron said, grinning and knowing it looked stupid in his desperation to appear normal. Hopefully the guy would just think he was drunk. “I knew that. I have a friend who works here. Spencer. Spencer Reid. Uh, he on tonight?”

The smile vanished and left the other man’s face looking cold and blank. “No idea who you’re talking about,” he said, voice sharp, and he looked Aaron up and down like he was memorizing him. “Sorry, I have patrons.” And he was gone, leaving Aaron cold.

Lying. He’d lied.

_Why?_

“Maybe we should go,” Simon murmured suddenly, what felt like moments later but was actually hours, his light eyes scanning the area around their booth. Kate and Clint were gone, probably making out somewhere on the dancefloor, and Aaron had been moodily picking at his drink, lost in thought. “I’m not imagining this, am I?”

“What?” Aaron looked up, following his gaze. A woman was standing near them, lounging casually by the door. Earpiece on, chin cocked up, _Security_ painted across her black vest. “Are they watching us?”

“Have been since the start of the night,” Simon said, winking at her. The woman rolled her eyes. “Did you fuck someone off when you got drinks?”

Aaron thought of Ethan, his suspicious stare. The instant aggression as soon as Aaron had mentioned Spencer. “You can go,” he said, choking the rest of his drink down. “I’m staying.” He wasn’t giving up now. Not this close. Something was going on, and he was determined to find out what.

 

* * *

 

The club had five exits. Three of those were locked fire escapes. One was the front door. Aaron found the outside employee exit as the sky above was beginning to lighten, thumbing through the packet of smokes he’d borrowed from Simon just to look like he had a reason for loitering. Choking on the first one, it took a beat to remember how to inhale without coughing, smoking never a vice he’d indulged. And he waited. Employees looked at him oddly as they left for their cars in the gated parking lot nearby, but he merely lit another smoke, strolled up the street a bit, and loafed in a shopfront, the exit still clearly visible from here. It was cold still, at this hour, and his cell beeped twice with curious texts from his housemates. He ignored them, opening snake instead and tapping at it, glancing up every time he heard the distinctive _beep-click_ of the buzzer opening the locked door, followed by hurried footsteps. It was a well-lit exit, cameras clearly visible overhead, and security walked past regularly. None of the employees looked intimidated by his presence.

Good. That wasn’t his intention.

_Beep-click_ went the door, but no footsteps followed. Aaron looked up.

Spencer looked back, his expression carefully blank. They watched each other, neither willing to make the first move. Without the blood and bruising, Aaron examined his face. How he’d changed. How he’d stayed the same. Examined the black vest, the belt that had lead him here, the name-tag missing but the bowtie just the same as the rest of the staff wore.

Finally, _finally_ , Spencer stepped off the stoop and walked towards him. Aaron waited. Had been waiting all night, what was a bit more? When he drew close, he smelt of alcohol and cigar smoke and anti-bacterial soap, his face pale in the weak light from the streetlamp overhead and the store front behind.

“Seven minutes,” he said finally, looking down at Aaron sitting on the sill.

“Huh?” Aaron blinked, exhaling and stubbing the smoke out against the brick, heart jack-rabbiting and entirely unsure of what he planned to do next.

“I used to say it to Mom,” Spencer explained. Hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched over; he looked awkward and worried all at once. Just as unsure as Aaron felt. “Every time she smoked. Told her it took seven minutes away from her life.”

“Oh.” Aaron shoved the packet in his pocket, along with his phone, standing and swallowing down the chill dawn air. Wired still. “I don’t really smoke. I was just… needed an excuse to wait here.”

“Hope that excuse was worth the thirty-five minutes of your life it wasted,” Spencer murmured, and Aaron smiled wanly and hoped that it was. They went quiet again. Not the comfortable quiet of their childhoods, but a terrible, heavy quiet that spoke of things left unsaid. “Do you have a plan now?”

No.

“Yes,” Aaron said, squaring his shoulders and schooling his expression into a stubborn determination. “We’re going to talk. And if you walk away from me this time, I’ll follow you. After we’ve talked, if you never want to see me again, fine. I’ll leave. But only after.”

Spencer nodded slowly, then turned and strode away. Startled, it took a beat for Aaron to realize what was happening, before pelting after him. “Hey,” he panted, skidding alongside and taking two long steps to catch up with Spencer’s easy, sloping stride. “That wasn’t a challenge for you to try and get away.” A quirk of his mouth was the only sign the other man had heard him. He kept walking. Aaron shrugged, and followed. Up quiet, sleeping streets, away from the brightly-lit shopfronts of the street where Spencer worked and into the darkened, narrow roads lined by apartment buildings of varying respectabilities, this neighbourhood unsure of whether it was growing or declining and the people living there caught in between.

They walked in silence up those streets and they walked in silence through a narrow, bricked alley that was clean and unlit, and they walked in silence as Aaron glumly wondered what this would be like if they’d never fallen apart. If they’d grown and found this together. If his stupid, rash letter hadn’t ruined everything.

Keys jangled. Spencer jogged up the damp steps of an apartment building definitely on the ‘declining’ scale, hammered his fist on the broken buzzer, and wiggled the gate as it automatically clicked open on broken hinges, holding it for Aaron to slide through. The keys grated in the foyer door, grinding against the lock, needing a shove from Spencer’s heel to actually get the thing open. Aaron winced, once again glad for Simon and his reduced rent for the apartment that was _far_ nicer than this, even with four twenty-sometimes living in there. Far nicer than the damp that extended to the carpeting inside as they walked through the foyer and past the peeling _out of order_ painted across the elevator doors. Far nicer than the blocky staircase that smelled of urine that they climbed to the sixth floor. Far nicer than the door that Spencer unlocked silently, _6K_ , and slipped inside. Shut it behind them, leaving the three bolts on the back open and merely flicking the lock on the handle.

The light flashed on, flickering uncertainly before catching. Aaron swallowed, still silent, still uncertain, an intruder in this space. No books, no chemistry sets. Just a TV sitting on the ground against the wall in a jumble of cords, a VCR balanced next to it with bunny-eared antennae stuck on the top in a grimy glob of blue-tac. A couch that was more sag than soft, missing its back and one arm duct-taped together. A fridge that spluttered and choked in the tiny kitchen attached, a single mug on the sink. A couple of battered boxes shoved against the living room wall, under windows that were barred and hazy. Their footsteps echoed. When Aaron coughed, the sound lingered. Spencer looked away, flushing, taking his vest off savagely and tossing it across the back of the couch, kicking his shoes into a neat line of footwear by the door and scattering them. And that didn’t make sense, because Spencer was working a nice job, a job Aaron knew paid well _before_ tips.

When Aaron looked down at the shoes, they were different sizes. Two people. He looked back up, counted two doors. One closed—bathroom, he guessed. One open, revealing a mattress shoved against a wall with a bundle of bedding on top, a stack of textbooks alongside.

_Two people_ , Aaron thought again, looking at those shoes, and felt small and stupid and insecure. Why was he even here? What right did he have to walk into this man’s life like he’d never left?

“Enjoying the view?” Spencer asked, his voice taut.

“No,” Aaron said honestly. Stopped. Looked at everything but Spencer’s blushing face, guilty for the embarrassment written there.

And the quiet was painful, so he was fucking grateful when Spencer shrugged, turned his back and padded to the kitchen to shove a kettle under the faucet and bang it on top of the gas range. “Coffee?” he asked softly, and Aaron nodded, perching awkwardly on the taped-up arm of the couch. Noted Spencer’s one white sock, one blue with spots, and smiled at the reminder that not everything was new. Tried not to look and failed as Spencer tugged a cupboard door open, revealing two more mugs and a battered tin of instant coffee. “There’s no sugar.”

“That’s fine.” Aaron stood, wincing as his bladder protested. “Um. Bathroom?”

Spencer jerked his head towards the closed door. “Down there,” he said, drawer clacking as he yanked it out. Aaron bolted, guilt and awkwardness speeding his steps, slipping through the door and into a narrow hall. Three doors.

Oh.

First one he tried was a closet, and here he found more boxes, stacks of laundry, some coats hanging on a rod that had been nailed in by clumsy hands. Second he tried was the bathroom; small and seedy and clean, despite the long-engrained stains that had been there long before Spencer had, and would remain long after he was gone. The shower stall was ringed by a periodic table curtain, something that Aaron smirked at, a rubber ducky hanging from the shower head by his neck. Washing his hands, he splashed water on his face, examined his reflection in the cracked mirror, and left the bathroom feeling slightly more alive.

And stopped. The third door was open, and that was the only thing that tempted him closer. Another bedroom. This one with a bed and a dresser, more books, clothes covering the floor and instruments leaning against one wall.

_Oh_ , Aaron thought, and something in his stomach that had been cold and cramped lifted just a little, letting him breathe easier. He walked back to the kitchen feeling lighter. “You have a roommate,” he said, finding Spencer sitting on the floor by the TV set, two mugs of coffee by his side. “Couldn’t you afford a better place?”

Spencer shrugged, flipping the remote in his hands, before climbing to his feet and tossing it to Aaron. “I can’t,” he answered finally. “He can. I need to shower, I smell like an ashtray. Can… will you wait?”

Aaron nodded, his throat dry. “Of course,” he said, and the words cracked as they left his mouth. Lingered even after Spencer had sidled past him, leaving the middle door open. He took Spencer’s place on the floor, flicking through grainy channels on the muted TV, listening to the pipes bang and clatter and eventually quieten. When he blinked, he wasn’t sure where he was, what was going on, sure he’d been listening to something pattering in the distance, unsure what it was. Mouth fuzzy, head buzzing, he rolled upright and winced as his neck crinked. Found a glass of water just out of easy reach, his phone and wallet neatly piled next to it. There was a pillow cuddled against his front, a blanket thrown over his hips and legs, and the light through the thin curtains burned. A noise had woken him. A scrape. Aaron blinked and looked up, finding the door opening. A man slipped in, yawning, kicking it shut and turning back to draw the bolts.

“Hello,” Aaron said dumbly, vividly aware he was a stranger on this guy’s living room floor, half asleep and hungover as fuck. Just to remind him, his stomach gurgled. The man jumped, spun around, his hands coming upright into an instant defensive posture.

Aaron stared up at the bartender from the night before, sure that his shock was mirrored.

“What the fuck?” the man snapped, furious, expression fierce. “How the fuck did you get here?” He stepped forward, posture threatening, and Aaron bolted upright quickly, disliking the edge him being on the floor gave the other guy.

“Ethan, this is Aaron,” Spencer said from behind them. Aaron cut his gaze nervously to the other man, finding Spencer standing in the bedroom doorway in loose flannel pants and a t-shirt that hung limp from his frame, hair still damp and flat to his head. “He’s a friend.”

“A friend,” Ethan repeated coldly, and his gaze didn’t waver from Aaron. A dark, angry kind of thought hummed its way into Aaron’s brain, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck and arms stand on end. The atmosphere was tight, thick enough to taste, and there was a twist to Ethan’s mouth that, when paired with his bunched fists, put Aaron’s back up. “Interesting. What kind of _friend_?”

“Not that kind.” Spencer seemed to be the only calm one in the room. Aaron had _no_ idea what was going on, no idea how to ask without putting his foot in his mouth, and no idea whether he could walk away from this or not. “You’re late back.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Ethan snapped, and now Aaron was pissed.

“Do you have a problem?” he asked the man, holding his hands out in a sort of gratifying gesture that was betrayed by the irritation in his voice. “I’ve been friends with Spence since we were kids. Your defensive attitude is uncalled for.”

Silence. “You’re right, I apologise,” Ethan said through gritted teeth, striding across the room to the hall. “Spence, can we talk?”

Spencer shot Aaron an apologetic look, following his roommate. The door clicked shut softly behind them, but it wasn’t enough to silence the argument that followed, just muffle it enough that Aaron couldn’t hear the words exchanged. Most of them.

_Not my keeper_ , was audible, as well as a barked, _not doing this again_. Aaron winced, recognising the terms from the good old days of Kyle, when arguments between him and Kate had been daily and exhaustingly predictable. _What am I supposed to assume_ , floated out, and Aaron was done. There was a legal pad next to the couch, covered in complicated looking chemistry equations, and he flipped to a new page, scrawled _‘Maybe we should do this another time. Aaron’_ and his mobile number, and let himself out, making sure to slam the door behind him so they knew he was leaving.

Things were so much simpler back at Rhosgobel…

 

* * *

 

A shrill _da da da dah dah_ cut through his afternoon ‘I’m still hungover’ nap, as his phone vibrated aggressively on his bedside cupboard.

“Guh,” he told his phone, eyes still gummed together. It ignored him, continuing on with a merry _da da da_. “Fuck.”

Stabbing at the phone, missing the buttons twice, he peered sleepily at the blocky green screen. 

**UNKNOWN NUMBER: MEET @ WRK 2NITE SHFT END. S. R.**

“Nope,” Aaron told the phone firmly, dropping it back to the cupboard. “I’m not going. I’m tired. I’m hungover. I have exams coming up. Spencer is being an evasive _shit_. Not even a little tempted to go.”

And he picked up his phone again, determined now.

Remembered their last letter.

**TO UNKNOWN NUMBER: K. C U THEN. U OK?**

… Damnit.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t Spencer standing by the exit door. At least, Aaron was ninety percent sure it wasn’t Spencer, since the man standing there was smoking moodily.

“You know,” Aaron said, stopping a few feet away and shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “It’s a little ‘possessive boyfriend’ that you texted me as him to get me here.”

“Would you have come if I hadn’t?” Ethan asked, dropping the butt and grinding it down with the heel of his dress shoe before ducking to lob it into the dumpster. “It’s a little ‘I’m a weirdo stalker’ that you came to his workplace asking about a man you haven’t spoken to in years.”

Aaron blinked. Considered the implications of that. And then reconsidered exactly why he was here.

“He’s told you about me,” he said, surprised despite himself. Ethan nodded, eyes narrowed, fingers fiddling with the packet of smokes in his pocket. “Then why’d you…”

“He’s told me about a kid he used to visit.” Ethan tugged the packet out, began shredding the thin cardboard thoughtfully. “Wrote letters to. Visited some. Said you guys fell out of contact, just before he was transferred here. But Spencer tends to tell half a story and fill the other half with useless unrelated trivia, so I had to fill in the rest myself.”

“Fill it with assumptions,” Aaron snapped.

Ethan snorted in reply. “Like you didn’t do the same. Here, let me fix some for you. Me and Spencer aren’t fucking, never have. I’m not another one of his shitty phases. I’m not his dealer, I’m not his keeper, but I am his friend. And, no offense, but I don’t know you and I do know him, and he has a history of picking the one person out of the room who’ll fuck him over and giving them keys to our apartment.”

“You think I’m here to hurt him.”

“You wouldn’t be the first.” Ethan edged forward. Behind him, Aaron saw a security guard stroll past the corner of the building, casually not looking to them. Ethan hadn’t come alone. His heart dropped to his shoes, not just with what _that_ said about the kinds of people Ethan expected Spencer to associate with, but his words as well. _Dealer. Fuck._ “Wouldn’t be the first I put on their ass either. I just got him clean. I just got him working. He’s a goddamn _kid,_ and if you think you can walk in here and undo everything we’ve fucking _bled_ to regain, you’ve got another thing—”

Aaron stepped back, out of reach. Fully aware that they were teetering towards a fight that Ethan was too scrawny to win, except for the fact that Aaron would probably let him just for the weird rush of gratefulness/misery at the stories behind his warnings.

“What happened to him?” he asked, feeling sick. “Before he came here?”

Ethan’s face twisted with confusion for a heartbeat, before settling back into a calm kind of blankness. “Honestly?” he said, the fight vanishing from his eyes to be replaced with resignation, “I thought you did.”


	27. Round-Robin Middle

_Dear Spencer,_

_I’m not the type to repeat an approach that’s clearly not working, so here’s my new plan._

_Something happened to you. You don’t want to tell me about it. And you know what?_

_That’s absolutely fine. Ours has never been a friendship based around making the other do something they don’t want to do, and it’s not going to become one now. No matter what you did or what was done to you—I feel about you the same way I did back then. It changes nothing about us. Friendships don’t end because years have passed. Not real friendships._

_And ours was real._

_Come on kid. Let me help you. Or let me move on. Tell me one way or the other how this goes._

_At least let me finish the story._

_Always yours, no matter your answer,_

_Aaron Hotchner._

_05/21/2001_

It’s the fate of us all to repeat our past mistakes; Halcyon and Mine were no exception.

They lived by a pond. The water was deep and silent. Not a ripple marred the surface, not a fish dwelled within. Nothing drank from it. It was lifeless, cold, but beautiful. A facsimile of nature.

Halcyon feared it. She’d never learned to swim. Mine offered to teach her, but she declined.

“What good is swimming if I wish to keep my feet on the ground?” she would say, and that felt wrong. This living was wrong, he suspected. Good at first, as all new things are good, until time takes it in his grubby hands and dulls its bright surface to reveal the tarnish below. Mine built the house by the pond for his Halcyon, piece by piece, paying careful attention to every hook and handle as he crafted it from nothing. Built their life from the ground up. Not a single piece was unnoticed, and every piece was silent. He forgot, eventually, that he’d ever known magic. He grew, as Halcyon did, for time moved on and took them with them. Hands calloused from work, shoulders broad, skin weathered. They took pride in the lives they’d created.

And when the winter came, the cold air, they gloried in the joy of spending it together.

He found Halcyon in the attic one day, staring through the clean window at the icy lake. Her skin was pale, her frame slender, and she was beautiful and his. Narrow fingers trailing on the glass, she said, “Remember what his voice sounded like?”

And he replied, “No,” because windows couldn’t talk.

And Halcyon looked away.

_Remember magic_ , she whispered one morning, waking beside him, and he looked at her oddly. There was wood to be cut, food to be grown. What good was magic? Magic didn’t fill bellies; magic didn’t make coin.

He introduced himself to the village nearby as Jack. A respectable name. There was very little that was wild or forgotten in a name like Jack. She called him Mine still, when they were alone. Until the day she called him Jack, and he didn’t even notice her resignation to normality. A bird in a cage only knows flight if its allowed to see the sky.

It was life. In a way. Some kind of life, and he thought they were happy. He was happy. It was normal, mundane, everything he’d thought he’d ever wanted.

He never asked her what she thought, because she _owed_ him for him rescuing her from… somewhere. He distantly remembered a door, a knock-kneed girl in a too-small dress. Or maybe that was a dream of times long past. Times never been.

“What does Halcyon mean?” he asked her, one summer, as fall creeped closer. She looked up from where she was fixing the fire, soot on her nose and her sleeves singed. Human.

“It’s a kingfisher,” she replied, looking to the silent lake that she feared, “or an idyllic time long passed.”

He considered that. Counted the wood by the fireplace. They’d need more. Reached for his axe. “Not much of a name, though?” he said, carelessly, and touched two fingers to her sooty nose. “Whoever heard of someone called Halcyon?”

She looked at him oddly and said nothing. And he left.

When he came home, home was empty. She was gone. Leaving behind nothing but the scent of books and the memory of sand slipping through his clumsy, hateful fingers.

Outside, summer ended and the lake grew still again. The ripples faded.

Fall was here.

 

_PS. I was reading the other day, trying to work out how to fix things. I found this: ‘A hunted man sometimes wearies of distrust and longs for friendship.’_

 

* * *

 

_Aaron,_

_If we’re quoting Tolkien now: ‘Fantasy is escapist, and that is its glory. If a soldier is imprisoned by the enemy, don't we consider it his duty to escape?’_

_We begin again at this moment as though nothing has come before it. Please?_

_One has to close the previous book to begin the sequel, after all. Consider this an end._

_We’re not friends._

Halcyon was lost again. She fell.

The world fell with her.

She called for help and no one came. She cried as loud as she could, because the people, they said: ‘cry and your cries will be heeded’, and the people, they lied.

No one came.

Alone she moved forward. Alone protected her.

And she made her choice. Forward or back? Above to the sun that glittered on the surface of the lake that haunted her? Down to the careless depths?

Above to the boy who was merely the memory of a freckled face pressed against a grimy window.

Below to something different.

She shed the dress that was small and torn and she shed the skin of the girl of magic, and she dived.

Something different.

_Goodbye, My-Jack,_ she thought, and went to find herself as she should have to begin with. The world darkened, squeezed, closed around her; hands around her throat that tightened and cut away her air, a relentless weight distantly pressing down.

And then it was over.

 

_And now, consider this a beginning. I’m only sorry it took so long to find._

 

She opened her eyes, wet and shaking, in a room that echoed with emptiness; nothing but a chest against the wall locked with a rusty bolt, a seamless door that wasn’t made to open, and a grimy, broken window.

A boy looked through, wide eyes startled. A boy, not a man, and she smiled. Picked up a pen and a piece of paper that slipped into being lost, just for her, and wrote carefully, every word integral.

_Shouldn’t you hate to grow up?_ she wrote, and the boy laughed soundlessly.

_We’re not friends; but we could be._

_Want to try again?_

_Yours if you’ll forgive me,_

_Spencer Reid_

_06/25/2001_


	28. June, 2001

“Did you buy flowers?” Simon lolled on Aaron’s bed, one ankle hooked over the other and an unlit smoke hanging out of his mouth.

Aaron nabbed the smoke with a smooth sweep of his hand as he turned, the other still expertly knotting his tie. “Smoke in here and I’ll make you eat it,” he warned his housemate, “Aren’t you quitting?”

“I’ve quit,” Simon replied pertly, grabbing one of Aaron’s pillows instead and tossing it up to catch it again, endlessly restless. “I’m just proving my willpower. Resisting the temptation to light it, see? You didn’t answer my question.”

Rolling his eyes, Aaron turned back to the dresser, tugging at his hair. One small bit seemed insistent on flicking up and out, no matter how much of Kate’s hair products he tried to use to stick it down. “No, I haven’t bought flowers, because I’m not going on a date. I’m going out with a _friend_.”

“Some friend,” Kate commented from the doorway, appearing with a comb and a spray bottle. “Stop fidgeting. Are you wearing cologne?” Turning to her, Aaron got a face full of the spray bottle as she drenched his hairline, going at it with the comb, standing on tiptoes to reach. “Are you wearing _Simon’s_ cologne?”

“Of course he is, I’m classy,” Simon drawled, appearing another smoke from somewhere on his person and resting it on his lip, a smirk curling around it, “and helpful. You should buy flowers.”

“It’s not a date,” Aaron yelped, turning on him and getting a smack from Kate as it messed up whatever she was doing to his hair. “And—wait, is the cologne too much? Should I wash it off? Simon, give me the fucking packet.”

“I don’t have a packet,” Simon lied, right as Kate leaned in and sniffed Aaron’s shirtfront loudly, proclaiming, “Well, it’s _nice_ cologne—”

“Obviously, I only buy nice cologne.”

“—but unless your end goal is taking this gal home, maybe wash it off. Because it’s _nice_ cologne, and nothing goes right to the pants like a nice cologne.”

“She’s right,” Simon added in the awkward silence that followed, placing a battered packet of smokes into Aaron’s palm; adding three more loose ones from various pockets around his jacket when Aaron frowned. And one more from his belt.

“It’s not a date,” Aaron repeated, turning that frown on his reflection in the mirror. “I’m meeting up with Spencer for dinner, then we’re going to do… something.” The silence deepened. Aaron glanced at Kate, saw her eyebrows up, Simon looking just as surprised.

“Nice restaurant?” he asked slowly, gnawing on another smoke. Aaron sighed and let him go. “Then home to do each other?”

He flushed. He’d never… they’d never… “No,” he mumbled, knowing he was red. “He said he has a diner he likes. Greasy burgers, shitty soda, you know. Ice cream that can’t legally be called ice cream but ‘vanilla’. Not a date. I’m not gay.” He added the last almost defensively. He didn’t date. Not… at all. He didn’t want to. He’d almost made that mistake once, throwing his heart into the open. Fuck that. And fuck what he’d be opening himself to if he dated _men_.

Kate tugged his tie. “Maybe lose the suit, then,” she suggested quietly, her eyes downcast. “Because greasy diner doesn’t really require dressing up, unless you’re dressing for the person not the location.”

He really didn’t want to do that. The suit, this suit, it was… clean. Neat. Meticulous. Some aspect of himself that he had absolute control over. Nothing of the raw, bleeding Aaron from two years ago showed through the pressed cuffs or the simple knot of the tie. Only what he wanted to show.

“You know,” Simon said suddenly. His feet thumped loudly on the floor as he sat up, running his fingers through his rakish hair. “This one lady one time, I made these dinner reservations. Fancy joint. No prices on the menus. Tasselly bits on the waiters. Real smick place.”

“Did you then ‘do her’?” Aaron asked bitterly, still glaring at his reflection. What if he gave Spencer the wrong idea and he ran a mile?

“Not exactly,” Simon replied. “She nixed it. Said it was swanky and fake. So I told her ‘fine, you pick a place’ and she took me to this dive off the side of the highway. Cook was this great cantankerous old woman with knobby fingers and a runny nose, the whole place smelled like burnt fish, and I’m pretty sure the fries were more peanut oil than potato.”

They stared at him. “Going somewhere with this story?” Aaron asked finally, as Simon bit down leisurely on the smoke, mulling over his thoughts. “Is this the bit where you go into whatever lewd events the night spiralled into?”

“Oh god no,” Simon said, blinking. “I started that date expecting sex, no lie. Then we went to that diner. I ended up dating her for two years; absolutely fucking fell head over heels for this woman in her slinky black dress eating fries with her fingers and licking the grease off. We didn’t even sleep together until a month and a half in, I was so scared of cocking it up.” Another pause. “Just saying.”

“I’m not gay,” Aaron repeated, giving up and grabbing his phone, wallet, keys, “and I’m not in love with him. We’re friends, hanging out. That’s it.”

“If you say so.” Kate and Simon exchanged a look that Aaron bristled at. Kate twitched her head. Simon sighed. “Want a lift to his place? I’m going out anyway. And you’ll get grubby on the metro dressed like that. Or jumped.”

Aaron swallowed, pushed the last five minutes out of his mind, and nodded slowly. “Thanks.”

It wasn’t a date.

Honest.

 

* * *

 

The walk to 6K was slow. Aaron paced himself, edging around two women asleep in the stairwell, until he found himself on the grungy floor where Spencer lived.

And stopped.

“Walls so fucking thin in this place you can hear people fucking from three floors up,” grumbled a man perched on the window at the end of the hall, leaning out with a cigar and his foot on the fire escape. “But that shits not so bad, really. Least the posh wank knows how to play.”

Aaron smiled tightly, nodding in the man’s direction, receiving a gappy, yellowed smile in return before the man turned back to his cigar. From the apartment across the hall, music floated through the thin door. Aaron edged closer, knuckles brushing the wood without tapping down. Finally, he knocked, the man’s rough cough behind him spurring him on. The door swung open immediately, releasing the strains of some jazzy keyboard tune that Aaron had absolutely no idea how to quantify further into the hall. Spencer stood on the other side, half-dressed in slacks and a shirt buttoned crookedly, bare footed on the manky carpet with his hair leaving damp trails across the dark purple material of his shoulders.

“Hi,” he said breathlessly, rocking up onto his toes and nodding twice, before jerkily stepping back to let him in. Nervous. Something tight in Aaron’s chest loosened at this sign of _Spencerness_ , this irrepressible desire to please. “Hi, hi, uh, come in, hello. Uh. Ethan, Aaron’s here.”

The music paused. Ethan looked up from where he was sitting on the couch with a battered keyboard resting across his knees, fingers darting over to press pause on the stereo playing the backbeat to his music. Long hair loose now like it hadn’t been when he was working, his dark eyes were impossible to discern under the shadowed curtain drifting forward.

“Yes, I see that,” he said finally, leaning back, one finger tapping on a key and making a repeated note. “Good observation skills, Sherlock. Are you done fluttering now?”

“No.” Spencer proved this by ‘fluttering’ more, bouncing from the door and deeper into the apartment, dancing twitchily back and forth with his gaze sweeping the empty floor. “I can’t find my shoes, my socks aren’t right, where’s my watch and my wallet—”

“You’re a hot mess,” Ethan grumbled, sliding out from under the keyboard and scooping up an empty whiskey glass as he stood, almost-melted ice clinking wetly in the bottom. “Shoes in the bathroom where you were cleaning them, socks I have no idea get your life together man, watch is in my room because you left it there when you were trying to show me a magic trick with it last night, wallet is—” Aaron stared as Ethan tugged open the broken cupboard to reveal a wallet sitting on top of the instant coffee tin. “—right here, and no, I don’t know why.”

“Thanks!” Spencer grabbed the wallet and bolted up the hall, shirt loose and flapping around. “Back in a minute!”

Aaron shuffled in, awkward, and pushed the door shut with his heel as Ethan silently poured himself a drink from a label-less bottle of what looked like scotch. “Want one?” Ethan offered suddenly, breaking the quiet as the pipes suddenly banged loudly up the hallway. “If you’re half as skitchy as he is, you’ll need it.” There was nothing in his face that revealed his emotions on the subject, just a quiet blankness as he poured another drink into a Batman mug without waiting for Aaron to reply, and slid it across the table. Aaron took it, choking the finger of scotch down, grateful for the warmth that followed the burn.

“Thanks,” he said, nodding. Ethan shrugged, putting his glass down and pouring another generous measure, topping Aaron’s up with considerably less. “I haven’t eaten yet though. I shouldn’t have much, I need a clear head.”

Eyebrows lifting, Ethan snorted. “I’m aware. I live with him.” His eyes skimmed Aaron’s suit. “Which is why I’m recommending drinking that.”

The door banged open again, Spencer reappearing—dressed this time, only a shade shy of Aaron’s formality, and something low and hungry in Aaron’s belly uncurled at the sight of the slim man dressed to the nines with his hair brushed neatly. “Ready,” he breathed, smiling tightly. He glanced at Ethan, back to Aaron, eyes widening at the suit and throat working up and down in a harsh exhale, before his head snapped back to Ethan and the bottle. “Ethan…”

The man turned the bottle on the counter with a scrape of wood, tapping his finger on a neat marker line just below the level of liquor. “I’ll leave it on the counter,” he said quietly, waving his hand at them. “Now, shoo. Keys on the hook. Have fun, don’t talk statistics, if there’s a sock on the door when you get back, me and my Yamaha are finally taking it to the next level. Isn’t that right, baby?” He touched the keyboard gently, trailing his fingers down the keys in a slow slide before tapping out a quick tune. “Oh, I love you too, darling. Listen to you _purr_.”

Spencer’s mouth twitched. “Time to go,” he said with a hiss of held back laughter, shambling around Aaron, a careful distance between them, grabbing keys from next to the door and diving out. “Come on!” The door banged behind them, the bolts drawn moments later.

Aaron followed Spencer down the stairs, heart in his mouth. Here it was. Him and Spence.

Trying again.

 

* * *

 

Dinner was… delightful. And a mistake.

Absolutely a mistake.

Simon was right. Aaron sat across from Spencer in a dinky diner that was cleaner than expected, _What’s New Pussycat_ playing on a tinny jukebox nearby, and they talked. About everything unimportant: college—Spencer was actually Dr. Reid now, and while not really surprising, it was a weird thought—their respective oddball collections of housemates, music, movies—Lord of the Rings was coming out at the end of the year, and Spencer didn’t even stammer as he invited Aaron to watch it with him—work. Spencer talked about working the bar, a startling image to picture, but he was distant with details. He didn’t talk about his mom, so Aaron filled the silence with stories about Sean and his medley of various part-time jobs he’d picked up over the years.

And the whole time, Aaron couldn’t look away. Didn’t want to look away. Not from his friend’s fingers shredding a napkin into tiny pieces, his stack of pancakes oozing syrup onto the plate in front of him, not from his wide smile, not from his bright eyes. Aaron brought up psychology, a topic he’d taken as an elective the previous semester and found an unexpected love for, and listened hungrily as Spencer delved into tangents and tales and rambled happily on, eyes alive with the type of passion that only came from deeply understanding a topic. And the years slipped away. Their food went cold, Spencer absently stealing Aaron’s fries and dipping them into the globs of syrup on his plate, the ice melting into his soda. He declined a soda or shake, instead drinking from a bottle of water he’d brought in with him. It took three hours to go from stiff strangers to the two boys who’d once built a home on the side of a quarry.

The lights dimmed, the waitresses cleaning up. In unison, they got up to leave, walking close. Close enough their shoulders brushed, their faces flushing. Aaron felt warm, happy, a little unsettled from the greasy food. The warm air outside was a punch to the face, both of them inhaling slowly before walking to the car that Aaron knew wasn’t Spencer’s—the tiny stuffed miniature Shetland hanging from the rear-view mirror was one clue, as was the fact that the car floor was invisible under enough fast food rubbish, empty envelopes, and half-filled bottles of water that Aaron wasn’t even sure what colour the carpeting was.

“Where to now?” Spencer asked, flipping the keys cautiously in his hands, hair frizzing with the humidity. “It’s late.”

Late, perhaps, but Aaron wasn’t ready for the night to end. Wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready.

Was pretty sure Spencer felt the same.

There was a rolling boom overhead, startling them both. They looked up, the sky darkening to a deep indigo purple. A violent colour, moving in.

“Storm is about three hours away,” Spencer murmured after a moment, leaning against the car, one arm draped on the roof. “Remember when we used to…” He trailed off, and Aaron ached. “Aaron, do you trust me?”

That was a… loaded question. A loaded question with only one answer.

“Yes.”

Spencer nodded. “Right.” Looked uncertain, then determined. “Okay. You don’t have plans after?”

Suspicion began to brew. “Noooo…” he said, trailing off. The humidity pushed down on him. Aaron shivered, despite that heat. “Why?”

Spencer smiled. A cat-like smile, that Aaron couldn’t help but grin back at. “Can I borrow your phone? I don’t have one.”

Of course he didn’t.

 

* * *

 

**TO UNSAVED NUMBER: HI ETHAN, IT’S SPENCER. DO YOU MIND IF I BORROW YOUR CAR FOR THE NIGHT? I’LL FILL THE TANK FOR YOU. WE’RE HEADING JUST OUT OF TOWN, DON’T ASK WHERE OR AARON WILL SEE WHEN-**

**+1 TO UNSAVED NUMBER: -I GIVE HIS PHONE BACK. THANKS HEAPS, SORRY TO BE A BOTHER. S.R.**

**UNSAVED NUMBER: KK DNT MAKE A MESS ND DNT CRASH IT. C U TMRW. BRNG HME LNCH**

* * *

They stopped once for gas on what turned out to be a two-hour drive south-east of DC.

“Do you want a drink?” Aaron asked, insisting on paying for the drinks since Spencer was paying for gas. Spencer hesitated, fingers tapping on the empty bottle by his side, before nodding cautiously.

“Just water, please,” he responded. Aaron watched with interest after as his friend fiddled with the cap for an inordinate amount of time, fingers trailing on the seal, before cracking it open and taking a shaky gulp. Expecting some kind of rambling tirade about the quality of bottled water vs. tap, instead there was silence and a hasty twirl of the radio dials. Aaron didn’t ask. Instead, he hummed along loudly with the pop channel filled with boybands that he knew all the words to thanks to work blasting it constantly, occasionally pausing to comment on the scenery. It was a comfortable trip as they drove further into the night, the storm moving overhead, the highway darkening as they turned and bumped instead down unsealed side-roads.

“Where are we?” he questioned, when they finally pulled up in a scrubby parking lot made for about three cars, clearly only used occasionally. Tufts of wiry sea-grass poked up through the cracked asphalt, and when Spencer opened his door and climbed out, the air was thick with salt. Aaron followed, shedding his suit jacket at the cocky grin Spencer shot back, disappearing down a winding path. The path narrowed, thinned, becoming more like a deer-trail than a track. The ground underfoot turned from packed earth to sand, shifting under Aaron’s shoes. Finally, it broadened, suddenly widening into an open bay with water only slightly swayed by the brisk wind, the sky a dome of blue-black overhead. A white beach swept from side-to-side, a half-hearted attempt at a pier jutting out rudely into the quiet bay. Outside the bay, the waves crashed against the breakwater, the storm throwing them about carelessly.

“Point Lookout is just over there,” Spencer said, pointing towards the thin light of a lighthouse up the bay, around the inlet. “Found this when I came down to the museum one weekend with Ethan. He’s fascinated by Civil War relics, drags me half around the country when we’re on break.”

It was gorgeous. The sand, the water, the sky. Lightning slashed across the clouds, forking, lightning it all up with a brilliant flash of white and throwing Spencer into harsh relief against the black ocean. From here, they could see rain moving towards them; a solid wall of white and grey. “Why?” he murmured. “Why here?”

Spencer shrugged. “Thought we could watch the storm together,” he suggested, dancing back and forth on both feet. “It’s… well, statistically, we’re unlikely to be in danger from lightning strikes, but… there’s a risk.” He looked to the pier. “It would be stunning from out there though.”

Aaron grinned. Stepped forward. Remembered another storm, a shaking fence. Another risk. Held out his hand. Spencer baulked and looked at it, brow furrowed in thought or in confusion. Right then, the storm hit, lashing the water with curtains of rain, swirling around them. Drenched instantly. “Don’t worry,” he shouted over the downpour, and felt a hand slip into his, squeeze once, release. A beginning. “I’ll keep you safe.”

They walked into the storm together.

 

* * *

 

Aaron woke with the weak morning sun filtering through the car window. He sat up, pulled a face at the dry-hot taste in his mouth, and scrunched his face against the lingering sleep and the bright light. A shadow moved across the windscreen. Spencer, leaning against the hood. They’d had to wait to dry once the storm had moved away, eventually shedding clothes and leaving them across the hood to avoid the car smelling like damp. Oddly, Aaron had found that time hadn’t changed his reticence to undress in front of others, despite it being a long time since he’d had anything to hide. Spencer hadn’t even hesitated, completely unconcerned by sitting in his boxers complaining about sand borne pathogens and his distaste for beaches, as a general rule.

There was a towel around his shoulders now, his shirt in his hands. “Still damp,” he said, looking up as Aaron opened the door and leaned out. “We can wait an hour before we head back, if you’d rather not rush it.”

His head ached slightly from a late night and too little sleep, his mouth tasted gross, the water he choked down was tepid, Spencer’s shoulders were red and slightly freckled from the sun…

Aaron didn’t want to go home. They hadn’t touched beyond their hands. They hadn’t even talked about it, a careful distance between them. _Friends_ , hung between them, and they were determined to stick to that plan. But neither was stupid. The light from the car interior hadn’t lit much in that frozen storm-drenched dawn, but it had lit enough for both men to be vividly aware of just how much they wanted the other. Wet boxers hid nothing.

“I have an idea for filling the time,” he said, standing and pushing back the temptation to wince as Spencer’s eyes skated over his chest and torso. He worked out, he boxed, his body was fine. _No bruises to hide anymore_ , he reminded himself, squaring his shoulders, ignoring the sneaky pleasure at the man’s eyes on him, ignoring the queer jolt-shock of his dick twitching with interest between his legs. Hunching slightly over the car door to hide it from that hazel gaze. _Ignore it. Ignore, ignore, ignore. This isn’t a date. Just us kids being… kids. Being reckless._  “Water is calm.”

Narrowed eyes met his. “And?” Spencer murmured.

He shrugged. Looked nonchalant. Checked his phone, replied quickly to the _where u @?_ message Simon had sent. “Well,” he said, finally, when Spencer looked like he was about to burst from waiting, “we never did finish teaching you to swim.”


	29. July, 2001

Life slipped into a hazy mix of Aaron celebrating his results, spending increasing amounts of time with Spencer, celebrating having him back, just _celebrating_. Midway through bolting down toast on his way out the door one morning, he looked up to find Kate eyeing him over a cup of coffee.

“What?” he mumbled through the toast.

“You look happy,” she said after a beat, smiling at the coffee. “Really… really happy.”

_I am happy_ , Aaron realized suddenly, his phone buzzing in his pocket. He didn’t say that, just unlocked the Nokia and opened the message, peering down to hide the flush to his cheeks.

_Pteronophobia is the fear of being tickled by feathers. Are you ticklish? I’ve never asked. S.R._

“Thanks,” he told Kate, making his escape without responding yet. She just laughed.

_I’m not ticklish. Or… am I???_  he wrote back. Feeling warm and a little stupid, he almost immediately regretted the message. Was it too flirty? Too much?

Not flirty enough?

_Results on your state of ticklish inconclusive. Need more evidence. When are you getting here? S.R._

“Oh my god,” Aaron breathed, the warm pooling. “This kid.”

He almost ran out of the door. _Still friends_ , he reminded himself, and then very vividly imagined being pressed under that ‘just friend’, hands tracing bare skin, hot breath against his throat.

_For now,_ he added, and was only a little guilty to do so.

 

* * *

 

Spencer leaned forward. “Don’t move your knee,” he whispered intently, hand hovering over Aaron’s legs. “This is… very… integral…” Aaron didn’t even breathe. Just watched as that hand dipped, the fingers flexing and gripping, lower…

_BZZT._

“Damn,” Spencer said, flopping back and tossing the tweezers onto the game balanced on Aaron’s knees. “We should buy a coffee table. Also, this game is _dark_. This man is having multiple operations performed on him, and he is _awake_. What kind of sadistic surgeons would do that?” 

“Shoddy ones,” Aaron responded, picking one of the pieces out of the game and lobbing it in Spencer’s general direction. It caught on his sleeve, tumbling down between the cushions of the couch when Spencer twitched in surprise. “Oops. Can I have my funny bone back?”

Rolling his eyes, Spencer dived for it. “Did you know,” he mumbled from the depths of the couch. Aaron leaned back, enjoying the view of Spencer leaning into the couch, the arch of his back, his ass in the tight jeans… “the funny bone is—”

“Actually a nerve that runs up the elbow, yes, I do remember,” Aaron said, grinning. Remembering a bright-green cast and Spencer busily writing. “See, I do listen to you.” Giving into temptation, he leaned over and poked the tantalizing length of ribcage under the shirt in front of him, Spencer rocketing up with a squeak at being tickled. “Oooh. You _are_ ticklish.”

“No I’m not,” his friend hissed, edging away as much as he could. Which wasn’t much. The sagging of the couch meant that no matter how much he tried to edge away, they slid back together anyway. “You’re flirting. Stop that.”

“I’m not flirting,” Aaron lied, and when Spencer held out his palm with the funny bone piece sitting in the middle of it, took it carefully. Let his fingers linger. “Do you actually want me to stop?”

Spencer was staring. Almost quivering, eyes wide. No answer. Leaning closer, Aaron brought his mouth to those fingers, lips resting on the tips. The barest hint of pressure. He mouthed at them, a sudden shock-surge of arousal burning through him, almost whispering a moan.

“That’s flirting,” Spencer said suddenly, tugging his hand away and bringing it to his own mouth almost as a reflex, before letting it drop. Aaron backed off, sitting up and shaking his head with a laugh. He’d let Spencer make the next move. _Not gay,_ he told himself, wry at the repeated reassurance, glancing down at the crotch of his jeans. _Maybe a little._

Spencer’s hand slipped into view, curling around his thigh, fingers tracing the inner seam of his jeans. Aaron jolted, the touch going straight to his dick, and, god, was he thankful for the heavy denim. _Maybe a lot_ , he thought, leaning back as that hand crept up his leg, his hip, his side…

“Hey!” he yelped, the hand unerringly finding the _one_ ticklish spot on his ribs and attacking without respite. Rolling back, trying to escape, all he succeeded was to drag Spencer with him, both of them hitting the ground with a huff of exhaled air. Spencer landed on top, wheezing and grabbing onto Aaron’s sides to stop from hitting the carpet, straddling him. “Woah, hey! Time out!”

“No mercy,” Spencer said calmly, pressing his weight down on top of him and continuing his relentless tickling. Aaron whimpered, keeping his calm, scrunching his eyes shut and trying to wriggle out from under his friend. It was pleasure to the point of pain, and he lost his head a little trying not to laugh, hips bucking up in one smooth sweep, and…

“Ah,” Spencer gasped, once, Aaron’s eyes snapping open. That was… “ _Aaron_ …” What followed was definitely a moan, even a stifled one, and if Aaron wasn’t hard before, he was then.

_Oh fuck_ , Aaron thought, his head spinning, brain short-circuiting, and did it again. A slow roll upwards of his hips, Spencer rocking back into him, eyes averted and mouth open with the shock-pleasure unexpectedness of it. “We should stop,” he said numbly, settling his hands on Spencer’s hips. Spencer shook his head, rocked down, finding friction, a broken rhythm that stopped and started sporadically and was driving Aaron _insane._ “Spencer, wait.”

Spencer paused, finally looking him in the eyes. His expression glazed and hungry all at once. “You _were_ flirting,” he said, almost smug. “You want me?”

It was a question. A stupid question. A question that almost deserved a _duh_ as the answer.

“Yes,” he said instead, and Spencer moved his hips down again. A long, slow undertaking that dragged a groan from Aaron’s mouth and a rush of heat through his body. “But not if you don’t…”

“I do,” Spencer whispered, ducking his head, finding a rhythm, and Aaron was uncomfortable, turned on, wild, helpless, all of the above. Vividly aware they were crossing a line, fucking _sprinting_ past a line, but this was too much, not enough, and there wasn’t a part of him not focused on his dick and the hard, heavy warmth sliding unevenly against it. “You’re aroused?”

Aaron’s response was a noise that would probably have been embarrassing if he’d had two brain cells left to realize it. It hurt. It was hurting. He was hard, too hard, his jeans rough and Spencer rougher and he wanted/needed more, couldn’t _handle,_ more.

Hands on his fly. Aaron choked back a whimper, felt it slip free anyway. All Spencer did was undo his jeans before tugging them back flush against one another, finding that blissful rhythm again, and they were fully dressed, panting, rubbing against each other like cats on Spencer’s living room floor, and Aaron was done. Almost done. Just not quite _there_.

“Fu—” Spencer huffed, hunching forward, his hair brushing Aaron’s cheek, and Aaron took the delicious molten sound of that word on his friend’s lips and savoured it. “Is this enough for you?”

More than. Aaron didn’t have a hair-trigger, but nor had he ever had _this_. Anything like this. The closest he’d come was a scrabbled blowjob after prom, a couple of halting fumbles in the dark with people he couldn’t even place the names of. Never more. Never this _involved._ It wasn’t just the pressure and the movement, and the realization that Spencer was getting off on this too, it was the proximity to someone who made his heart feel tight and free all at once, the way his eyelids went heavy and half-lidded when he looked down at the sheer want on Aaron’s face, the thrumming pulse in the hand that had fumbled sweetly into his.

“Spencer, shi—” He jolted up, trying to jerk his hips away, but Spencer pinned him down, ground down once _hard_ , and that was it. One of Spencer’s hands came up to rest on his jaw, a soft, loving flicker of touch, and he was gone. The feeling ripped out of him and left him raw and sticky and panting and boneless on the ground. Spencer whined, eyes huge, and wriggled against him. Aaron babbled, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I haven’t done this, oh fuck…” Distant guilt through the heady rush, the sated laziness, and Spencer wasn’t done, was still turned on and panting, and Aaron didn’t know what to do. What did _men_ do? He panicked, a little, in that moment. _Blow job?_ he thought wildly, and felt ridiculous even thinking about it. _How do I even attempt that, oh fuck_. Reached up in a desperate realization that he was just lying there silent and useless, and let his fingers brush against Spencer’s fly, feeling the firm press of him against his knuckles.

“Don’t,” Spencer hissed, and twisted his crotch away. “It’s okay. I can deal with it. Just let… you don’t mind?”

Mind? The man just got him off in his fucking _pants_ like he was a goddamn teenager still, and he was asking if he minded?

Minded… what?

“Oh my god,” Aaron breathed, realizing what he meant as his friend’s hand flickered down and rolled against himself, his breath rasping once and eyes flickering shut. He was going to. Holy shit. “No. No. This is fine. You’re fine. I’m.” His breath whistled. _No no no. Not right now._ “Ah. Spence. I’m.” Tightened. The whistling stopped.

And Spencer shot off of him in a blur of movement, kneeling beside him, his face calm and expression soothing. “Panicking,” he said gently, one hand on Aaron’s back guiding him into an upright position. “Breathe. Like that. It’s okay. You’re okay.” Aaron nodded, feeling the hand rubbing his spine suddenly stop. “Wait. Aaron. You… haven’t _what_?”

Oops.

Looking up, he met a pale face. “Uh,” he said, taking two gulping lungful’s of air and grinning sheepishly. “This?” A waved hand at the floor, at his ruined pants. “Well… um.”

“Sex.” The reply was deadpan, tense.

“… Not in so many words.” He laughed nervously to try and relieve some tension. “Hey, uh, do you think I should probably stop reaffirming that I’m not gay now?”

The hand on his back moved away, covered Spencer’s mouth along with its pair. He stared at Aaron over them, skin pallid and eyes impossible to discern with his expression obscured. “But.” The words were muffled by Spencer’s hands. Aaron reached up and gently took them, pulling them away to reveal a downturned mouth. “You’re… _you_. You’re Aaron.”

“Yes, I know,” Aaron said, feeling his skin burning. This was… a little embarrassing. “I’m me. I’m glad we got that out of the way.”

Spencer shook his head slowly. “But,” he said, and the words were a whisper, “you’re _gorgeous_.”

Oh.

That was.

“Oh,” Aaron said, and the burning became a flame that not only seared his face but down his chest as well. “Uh. Thank you. So are you.” Great. At some point between them deciding to play board games and _this_ , they’d become thirteen-year-old girls.

Spencer gave him a strange look. “I’m sorry,” he said stiffly, and stood, backing away. “I led you on. I… I shouldn’t have done that. I got carried away and didn’t think to ask you… I fucked up. Please, don’t let this ruin what we’re regaining.” The words were halted, odd, robotic, and he didn’t stop backing away. Aaron shuffled after, staggering to his feet with his knees still wobbly under him, his boxers slapping grossly against his leg. He winced, readjusted awkwardly, tried to stammer out some reassurance, but Spencer was bolting. “Bathroom, I’ll be back,” he called back over his shoulder, the door slamming shut behind them.

Aaron stared at that door. Kicked angrily at the overturned Operation set on the ground next to him. _Way to fuck up_ , he thought, _furious_ with himself. He shouldn’t have told him. Should have told him sooner. Any of the above. Settling down to wait, he reset the game and wondered miserably if Spencer had a spare pair of pants he could borrow. This didn’t change anything. Not if Spencer didn’t want it to.

He was determined it wouldn’t change anything.

 

* * *

 

It changed things.

Not even things between them. They were awkward if the subject came up, kept a careful distance between them, but, other than that, they slipped quickly back into board games and watching shitty quiz shows on TV and keeping track of how many questions Spencer got right. But it changed things. Aaron would curl into his bed and fall asleep thinking of nothing, and he’d wake up with a musky scent haunting him, the memory of hands on his hips, achingly hard and panting. His dreams were chaotic, hungry, and something taunted him.

He'd always prided himself on his self-control, but that _fucking_ day on the living room floor had flicked some kind of switch in him. He wanted more. Wanted to see if Spencer kissed as well as he used to, wanted to see Spencer give in to the same boneless desire that had burned in him, wanted to transfer that dreamlike need into real hands, real bodies, real sensations.

Spencer brushed against him one day walking down to the corner store for ice cream, and Aaron was instantly hard. Had to look away another when the other man was idly lounging on the couch, complaining about the heat, poking at his lip with the mouth of an empty water bottle, as Aaron vividly imaged those lips wrapped around something else.

Went home and, just to see if he could, got himself off thinking about _his_ mouth around Spencer. Transferred his hazy memory of that single blowjob he’d received in high school and tried to picture himself doing it.

As it turned out, he could.

Twice.

“I’m gone,” he said to the roof after, laying on his bed naked with the door locked and his cell silent next to him. He’d been laying there an hour, just staring at nothing, as a beat throbbed through the wall from Kate’s room and the sun slipped slowly down outside. “I’m absolutely fucking gone for him.” His cell hummed, sending a jolt sparking down his body with surprise at the unexpected noise, the fan on his bedside cupboard cool against the sweat still on his body.

_Bored. Work is boring. I miss you. What are you doing? S.R._

Thankful that the man had finally caved and brought a phone, Aaron typed back a lie— _nothing important. When do you finish_ —and rolled over. The sheets cooled as his body hummed with a sneaky reminder that he _could_ visit him tonight, it would be late, but he could crash on his couch… curled his hand down, pressed it against himself, groaned at the response.

“Fucking gone,” he mumbled into his pillow, and closed his eyes. But he was slightly thankful for one thing. If it was just sex, just his mind and body conspiring against him to make him horny _all the fucking time_ , then his heart wasn’t involved.

And he wasn’t sure he could handle his heart being involved yet. Not to _that_ extent. Loving him as a friend was one thing. He wasn’t ready to love him as _more_. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

_Three am. That’s way too late to visit. It’s not safe to travel at that time. S.R._

_But I really want to see you. Tomorrow? S.R_

 

* * *

 

Not quite. He gave in. Showered, wheedled the car from the once again smoking Simon, on the agreement he didn’t bitch at him about the giving into his addiction for at _least_ a week, and then counted the hours down in a restless pace around the apartment. Just before three, he headed over there, hoping there was an empty space in the resident’s parking lot at Spencer’s apartment otherwise this night might end with them down the local precinct filling out paperwork on Simon’s poor Nissan being stolen.

There was one, and he parked, checked it was locked twice, before slipping to the gate. Spencer had showed him how to jiggle it in just the way to get it unlocked, and he was running on a hope that the main door was open—not unlikely, seeing as most of the residents lacked Spencer’s patience with fighting with the lock, and there was a brick set by the door just for that purpose. A brick that was wedged in it now. Aaron beamed thankfully at it, slipped through, and bounded up the stairs to the apartment.

_Knock knock,_ he texted, wincing at the sound of a party going on next door. Mixed with the sound of the heavy, electronic bass, he could hear a loud argument. Shouting, swearing. The kind of fight that was wired and usually resulting in a knock on the door from the DCPD.

No answer. The fight moved, getting louder.

Not from the neighbours.

Aaron tensed, inching closer. Raised voices from within, snarled and angry. His phone suddenly hummed with a violence that startled him. The voices lowered, paused.

_Are you here??_

He didn’t sign his text. Something was wrong.

And, immediately, Aaron was tense, adrenaline hammering through him. Shaking and worried and ready all at once, the exact mix of roiling, sickening feelings he used to get when coming home from school and seeing something broken. A waiting feeling. Something awful, back again.

_Yes. What’s going on? Who is that?_

The door opened roughly, Ethan, red-faced and shaking, his hair wild and eyes furious. “Get in here,” he snapped, stepping aside, right as Aaron’s phone buzzed with a _please leave._ “He might listen to _you_.”

Aaron stepped in. He couldn’t not. Ready for anything, except for the sight of a half-dressed Spencer still in the lower half of his uniform, pressed so tightly against the wall near his room it looked like he was trying to merge with the flaky wallpaper, and a woman standing in the centre of the room with her arms over her chest. Half-dressed. Half-undressed.

Almost undressed.

Aaron blinked as she sneered at him. “Who’s this?” she snapped, turning halfway towards Spencer to bark the question at him. Spencer stared at the carpet, shoulders folded inwards, hair over his eyes, and said nothing.

“Get. Out,” Ethan snarled through gritted teeth, swinging the door. Someone up the hall hammered on their own door, screaming _shut the fuck up_ , and he responded by slamming it so hard, paint flakes drifted down from the ceiling. “Get out now, or I _swear_ , I will call the cops.”

A pout.

Aaron hated her instantly.

“But Spence doesn’t _want_ me to leave, do you, baby?” she said, mouth curling into a smile that was sickeningly confident. “So unless you plan on throwing me out yourself, I’m not going anywhere. You and the big guy there could probably do it. But you don’t want to hit me _again_ do you?”

Spencer said nothing. And Aaron hated her more. Didn’t know where to look or what to do with his hands. Looked at Ethan instead, oddly conflicted over that _again_ , and his gut lurched when he saw his hands were clenched. Ethan stepped forward, a slow, predatory step. Aaron shifted his body towards him, just in case, and refused to look at Spencer. Refused to assume.

Assumed too much, with a gross drop in his gut. Pictured too much.

“Don’t touch her,” Spencer said, his voice monotonous. “Leave it, Ethan. Not again.”

That word once more. _Again_.

_Are you the kind of person who hits without reason?_ Aaron wondered, examining Ethan’s body language. _Or am I missing something crucial here?_

_Possessive,_ his brain said, but that wasn’t right. _Aaron_ was possessive. Aaron was picturing Spencer and her together, fucking, _kissing_ , and it was burning him up. But he still wasn’t going to touch her, or him. Ethan was… protective.

“Do you get off on this?” Ethan was saying, his knuckles white and lips just as pale. “Coming here and playing him off against me like he’s your fucking _pet_? Gonna get him hi—” He stopped, abruptly, choked back the words with a frantic look at Aaron, and Spencer made a low, pained noise. “Spencer, come on. You’re past this, man. You got rid of her _months_ ago. Fuck her off!”

“If I leave,” she said, turning and moving towards Spencer. Spencer shifted, pulling back against the wall, looked up and at Aaron. Eyes huge, lips pink. A bruise on his pale throat in the shape of a mouth. Her next words were inaudible, but Aaron was staring straight into his eyes and he watched them turn from Spencer to stranger as a raw flicker of something dark and needy flashed through them.

More wanting then he’d _ever_ looked at Aaron.

“Touch him again and I’ll throw you out the door,” Ethan spat, and Spencer looked at him blankly. Passive. A nothing face on a man that wasn’t anything like the person Aaron had been relearning over the past month and a bit. “Come on. Fucking try me.”

“Leave her alone,” Spencer said, voice still hollow, except there was a warning in it now. He looked at her. Swallowed. Aaron could actually see how much his next words hurt him, sweat tracing down his face. “But you should go. Please. Please leave.” His voice cracked, face crumpling slightly with the effort, and Aaron saw—for a heartbeat—the scared-determined face of the kid who’d once walked onto a fence in a thunderstorm because he’d believed Aaron wouldn’t let him fall.

And Aaron moved. Walked towards them. Dodged around her, ignoring her soft noise of surprise and—without letting himself think through how badly this could go—pulled Spencer away from her, away from the wall, against his body. As soon as his arm was around him, Spencer crumpled. A puppet with his strings cut, he folded himself heartlessly against Aaron’s chest and shuddered convulsively, stinking of too-sweet perfume and sweat and sex.

Aaron hated him a little too in that moment.

“Please, leave,” he said to the woman, looking her dead in the eye and knowing his father was probably showing in his face right now. “You’ve been asked by the members of this household to vacate the premises. Now, go.”

“Alright, alright,” she said, stepping back, eyes narrowed. She looked… confused. Disgusted. A little worried. “I was just popping in on an old friend. No need for all the theatrics. Ethan, honey, you really shouldn’t be such a fucking hypocrite when you can’t even stay out of the bottle long enough to notice when he’s hurting. At least _I_ was there for him.”

Ethan said nothing, just opened the door, eyes locked on a point just over her shoulder.

She cut them one last time on the way out: “If you’re going to fuck him, get him high first,” she called over her shoulder, and Spencer jerked grossly against Aaron and made a _terrible_ noise that tore at them both. “He’s at his best when he’s mindless. Real kinky thing.”

The door hit her on the way out with the force that Ethan flung it shut, but Aaron couldn’t care. Couldn’t think to care. Didn’t think he’d ever care again. Spencer ripped away, staggering back and looking everywhere but at Aaron.

“You fucking _idiot_ ,” Ethan yelled, turning on him, and Aaron could see the fear traced under the anger now that the woman was gone. “What the fucking _fuck_ , Spencer?” Spencer turned and walked into his room, closing the door softly behind them. Ethan growled in frustration, carding his fingers through his hair and stalking to the kitchen where a bottle sat open on the cupboard. Fingers traced it.

He flung it into the sink roughly, the glass shattering. Aaron winced with the sound.

“Shit, _fuck_ ,” he hissed, hunching over the sink, pacing around.

And Aaron was frozen.

“I need to,” Ethan mumbled, barely audible. Looked up, back at Aaron. “You choose now if you stay or leave. You’re not going to like what comes next.”

Oh. Now he knew what he was feeling. Anger. Any target was fine.

“Go near him while you’re like this and I’ll lay you flat,” he said calmly, letting the truth show in his hands and face instead of his tone. “You’re too angry. You’ve been drinking. Wait until the morning.”

Ethan shook his head. “Can’t,” he said briskly, “you’re not stupid, Hotchner, or he wouldn’t like you so much. I wait till morning, and, if he did what I think he did, he’ll squirrel the evidence away and we’re stuck on the whole sick roller-coaster all over again. Spencer Reid’s Wild Ride, you really want tickets to that? Now sit on that couch and don’t interfere, or get out.”

Aaron made his choice. Didn’t want to make it. Wanted to go home and go to bed, to deal with this alone and work out if he was bleeding or if it just felt that way. Work out whether his feelings were justified or reactionary. Consider his options, lay them all out, make an argument.

Didn’t have the luxury of that.

“I’m going,” he said, gut cramping painfully, heart cramping with it, “but he’s coming with me.”

 

* * *

 

Walking into that room had taken more strength than Aaron had known he’d possessed. Finding Spencer sitting on the mattress that was all he had of a bed, knees to his chest and head on his knees? That hurt. Almost as much as the fact Aaron could _smell_ what had happened in here, even if the hickey on his neck and the rumpled covers hadn’t given the game away.

“How do you do it?” he asked, closing the door carefully behind him and trying not to examine the room he’d never been in before. Painfully bare. That would make Ethan’s job easier.

“Do what?” Spencer asked his knee, in the same terribly blank voice.

Aaron bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, pushing this conversation relentlessly on. “Do you shoot up?” he asked. “Pills, powder, what? What am I looking for here?”

Dark eyes rocked up to meet his. Glass eyes. Pupils that reacted when Aaron turned the light on. “Intravenously,” he answered dully, holding his arms out, crook up. Arms that looked clean until Aaron leaned closer and saw the speckled reminder of past mistakes scarring the skin. Nothing recent. “Faster high. Takes the edge off quicker.” He shivered again, those eyes somehow becoming glassier. “I need it fast. It hits fast. The need. The rush. Too fast. Sex helps too. Switches my brain off, switches everything off. Like a hard reset…” Short, halting sentences, and the room closed in around them, the air suffocating and thick and not enough to live on.

“Flavour of the month?” Aaron asked bitterly, and walked to a box of neatly folded clothes he could see. Not to search. Ethan knew better than him where Spencer would hide what he didn’t want to be found. Just to find something clean, something untouched by this.

The words followed him, almost mocking despite there being no spite in Spencer’s tone, as he listed all the ways Aaron had failed two years ago, when he hadn’t worked harder to save a friend from falling. “Cocaine, mostly. Why do you think I work where I work? Easy access.” He paused. “Methamphetamine is easier to get, but the side-effects are far too numerous and visible. I can work still on coke. Can focus. It makes things sharper, quicker. Less. Ecstasy a handful of times when I didn’t have money for coke. That was… it went badly. So badly. Tried opiates. They slow me down too much. They were good at first though…”

“Stop!” He shouted it accidentally, thumb punching through the cardboard of the box as his hands clenched. “I. Jesus, _fuck_ , Spencer. Why didn’t you come to me? To Sean? We would have helped you?”

A shrug. “Because I get stupid,” his friend admitted. The fucking obvious. “When I’m withdrawing, I don’t think. My brain does _nothing_ helpful. It works against me. These aren’t excuses, I’m responsible for my own behaviour and my own short fallings… I didn’t want you to see that. See what I’d do for some _relief_.” He curled in tighter. “If you never knew, you’d always just see me as the same person who built Rhosgobel. Not this… _wreck._ The ghost of Spencer Reid.”

“Why’d you sleep with her?” Aaron asked it out of a rote need to know, no real desire driving him.

“Habit. Just… habit. I apparently have an addictive nature. Drugs, people, routine. I was working, and normally I can ignore the drugs around me, block it out. I’m five months clean. I thought it was over. But it just… hit me. Tonight. They were doing lines and I was working on the books and thinking of you and I just _wanted_ and it wouldn’t let up. Then I left and she was there, and my darkest times have been spent with her and a needle. Her, or someone else. Anyone willing will do when I need it to stop. Thought maybe I could placebo it into thinking I was high by… half fulfilling the ritual. And now you’re going to leave because that’s what’s best for you, and I’m trying to work through my stupid brain to find the words to tell you that’s okay.”

Aaron stared at him. The anger drained away and left nothing, Spencer’s clothes in his arms. “You don’t need to,” he said roughly.

“But I do.” Spencer stood, shakily. “Under it all, you _should_ go.” There was a sick look on his face. “I want you to go,” he said, his voice a whisper, “but I don’t know if that’s because I care about you and can’t hurt you like this, or because I want you out so I can use it as an excuse to use again.”

Aaron held out the clothes. “Shut up,” he said. Still hating him. Part of him. _This_ part of him, bared open and raw in this shitty empty room. “Get a bag. You’re coming back to my place so Ethan can go through your stuff without killing you out of sheer frustration. And don’t say another word. I… just not now. Not yet. I don’t want to hear it.”

He didn’t. Couldn’t.

Just followed Spencer out of the room as they made their halting way to the door. Ethan watched them go, expression blank.

“Window sill again?” he called after them, and Spencer winced.

Nodded.

The drive home was silent.

 

* * *

 

If there was any one thing that drove home how fucked this whole thing was, it was sitting on the rim of the bath staring at the wall as Spencer showered. Or possibly averting his gaze just enough to offer him some illusion of privacy while he’d undressed, and then savagely going through his clothes for anything that shouldn’t be there.

Something familiar. He’d done this for Sean, right before leaving for college, when Sean had fallen in the same fucking pit after finding out their collective nightmare was dying. Nightmare or not, lung cancer was a bitch of a way to go, and neither brother had known how to deal with it. They’d just left it to their mother; and Sean had fallen. Nowhere near as hard as this though.

He offered Spencer a glass of water that he refused, and left him in his bed. Grabbed a pillow and blanket and walked out to the living room, scowling when Simon and Clint popped their head over the couch and stared at him.

“You okay? Simon asked cautiously, as Clint nudged him, both well used to Aaron’s low moods. They were rare, cold, and relentless. He didn’t often dwell in them.

He was tonight.

“Fine,” he grunted, and threw the bedding down on the floor, laying on top of it and squeezing his eyes shut. “Night.”

Silence.

“Uhh,” Clint said, and Simon hissed at him to _shut up._ Muted the TV. A painful hour followed of them staring awkwardly at the screen while he pretended to sleep, until they both yawned and made stiff allusions to how tired they were and slunk away to their rooms. He relocated to the couch and turned the volume back on, letting his mind stay locked firmly on the infomercial he was watching. Gave up, and shoved a movie on, some gormless horror flick with soldiers and werewolves and no real plot.

“They’re actually animatronics,” said a soft voice from the door, and Aaron felt sick. “The werewolves. Aaron?”

“Go away,” he replied coldly. “Really can’t deal with you right now, Spencer.”

But even over the low hum of the TV, he heard the soft hitched sound of someone choking back a sob. A gasp. Pain.

_Damn,_ he thought, and sat up. Spencer stared at him, arms folded in front of a shirt two sizes too big and loose flannel pyjama pants. Eyes dangerously bright.

“I’m sorry for the woman,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry for the drugs. For running away. For scaring you. For fucking up so bad I couldn’t come back. And I can’t make any of it go away. I don’t know if I can ever make it go away. But I. I need something right now, please. And I don’t deserve it and I’m asking anyway because I’m selfish and cruel and weak and—”

“Stop.” His throat was husky, the words biting. “Stop _doing_ that. Just ask.”

Spencer shuddered. Whined softly. And asked. Finally.

Two years after he should have.

“I just need a friend,” he whispered, and slunk over to the couch. “Just a friend.”

“I’ve always been that,” Aaron replied, and made room. Spencer slid into the cleared space like he was trying to contain everything that was rotten inside him in his body, curling inwards and leaning away. Aaron didn’t let him, just inched over and pulled him against his shoulder, letting his head rest there with his arm around the other man’s shoulders. “And I’m not going to leave.”

He thought he heard a muffled _thank you_ , but he couldn’t be sure. When he looked down, Spencer was already asleep.


	30. August, 2001

The nameless awful thing Aaron had never been able to name in his childhood was back, but this time it had grown a face that Aaron loved. It lingered behind Spencer’s eyes, in the curve of his mouth, the shadows along his inner arm. Now he knew it was there, it was all he could see. It was there when Aaron left Spencer at his house with Kate and Clint and drove back to Spencer’s apartment, Simon waiting in the car outside.

“Do you need me to come up?” Simon had asked uncertainly, and Aaron had laughed because Simon was two shades shy of scrawny and a self-professed pacifist. He cried over _nature documentaries_ , if the predators won. He cried over them if the prey won too, worrying about the predators.

“Just stay here,” Aaron had told him, and walked up the grungy stairs to an uncertain confrontation. Used Spencer’s keys to let himself in and found Ethan on the couch, staring at the roof, his face a mask of misery.

“Two grams in the seam of the windowsill,” Ethan drawled to the roof, not meeting Aaron’s eyes. “Shit coke, too. He’s normally much pickier since… well, he’s normally pickier.”

Aaron felt sick. But he had a purpose for being here. “If I hadn’t showed last night, what would have happened?” he asked instead, because he had to.

Ethan tensed. “She would have gotten in my face until I tossed her out,” he said harshly, his voice frozen. “Do you have a problem with that?” Getting to his feet, he squared his shoulders, his posture aggressively front-on. Aaron said nothing, just let it run its course. “Want to know the last time I backed off with that _bitch_?”

_No._ “Yes,” Aaron said, carefully emotionless. He was walking dangerous grounds between friend and keeper, and he needed more information to avoid overstepping.

Stepping closer, Ethan’s mouth was a thin line of anger and mixed misery, but Aaron didn’t think it was aimed at him. More… inwards. Maybe Ethan had his own something awful. “Came back from visiting my grandma and she’d dragged him headfirst into a three-day bender. Thought he was getting clean before that.” Ethan winced, his hand flickering to his mouth. “I’ve never hit a friend. Not once… but whatever she’d given him, it was a mess. Fucked him up bad, and I mean bad. I tried to get her out, he flipped out. I don’t think he even knew it was me.” A rough laugh shook the man in front of Aaron, as Aaron tried to remember how to feel anything but raw. “Guess the best thing that came out of it was when he came down, he was so terrified by what had happened, he didn’t touch the shit again. All it took was a bout of crap coke-induced paranoia, and a broken nose.” Aaron must have made a sound, because he clarified, “Mine, not his. All I did was pin him down. I swear, I knocked him down and kept him there. That was it.”

He made it sound so mundane. The inevitable culmination of a series of events, instead of something so intensely horrific Aaron couldn’t actually picture it. And if he was telling him this, there were a thousand stories he wasn’t telling.

“How long was he on them?”

Another shrug. “Shortly after I met him, so a couple of years? Skinny little spit of a kid, barely fifteen, transferred from out of state in the middle of semester. I was the RA at the hall they put him in, so they paired him with me. He coped for about a month and then crumpled. Started sleeping around, drinking, flunking classes. Guess he slept with the wrong person and they showed him there were easier ways to fuck up. Why aren’t you asking him?”

Because when it came from Ethan, it was easier to pretend they were talking about someone else. A different Spencer. Someone Aaron hadn’t failed. But it was only an illusion. He realized that now.

And Aaron broke. He didn’t trust Ethan, didn’t like him. Wasn’t sure what to think, except that Ethan had stuck with Spencer when Aaron hadn’t, through three hellish years. _Do you even know who you were trying to save?_ he realized suddenly, staring at Ethan’s red-ringed eyes. _He was already falling when you found him._

Took one shuddering breath, closed his eyes, and felt the confession rip out of him along with all his air. “I don’t know what to do.”

Ethan looked at him oddly. “Can’t answer that,” he said finally, expression turning sad. “You’re not me. The dynamics are different… he hasn’t relapsed yet. He might not, if he has enough to cling onto when he’s sober. But I promise you, I’ll throw his ass in rehab and to hell with his future if I think he’s going down that path again. Don’t make the same mistake I did and try to wait it out—when he’s high, he’s not looking to take the edge off, whatever crap he gives you. He’s looking to make it all stop… and if he decides to let it win, he’ll make damn sure there’s no coming back this time.”

Something awful.

Aaron had slunk back to his home, found Spencer a jittery mess in his bedroom, and said very little. “What?” Spence asked, looking cornered, looking drawn, and curled back onto the bed.

Looking at him, Aaron gave in. Something to cling to.

He could do that.

He slipped onto the bed, wrapped his arms around the man hunched there, and held on securely. If he held on tight enough, there was no falling away. Sheer willpower.

He wouldn’t let him go this time.

 

* * *

 

The only thing they could be thankful for was that it was the summer holidays. A macabre parody of their previous holidays together, this one was spent in waiting to find out who’d win in the end; Spencer, or his demons.

He disappeared once. Four days out of contact and Aaron spent the whole four days lashing out at everyone around him as Simon called every hospital in the area asking if a slender brown-haired man had been admitted. Walking in from three hours driving hopelessly around DC, Simon too exhausted to keep going, Clint had made a sly comment about _junkies_ from his seat on the couch. Kate threw him out and Aaron couldn’t even spare the energy to comfort her. Just fell into bed and woke up groggy and sick four hours later, with Simon shaking him awake.

“Come on,” he said, tilting his head to the door. “I’ve slept. We’ll go out again.” And they did. Another five hours. Aaron called Ethan. _Don’t panic, he’s fine, I’ll bring him home_ , the man had snapped, before hanging up, and promptly vanishing from the face of the earth as well.

Monday morning hit, and a knock at their door offered up a Spencer who looked like he’d been dragged through hell backwards, and an Ethan who didn’t look any better.

“I didn’t relapse,” Spencer said with a scowl, as Ethan shoved him forward. “It was work. I had to work, I swear. Something… came up.”

“You couldn’t _text_?” Aaron snarled, realizing the fear of the past four days was drawing close on this moment and making him harsh, unfeeling. “We called _morgues_ , Spencer. Fucking morgues!”

Spencer blinked, looking around the room. At Simon with his arm around Kate as she snuffed wetly into his chest, as the phonebooks and maps scattered everywhere highlighted in the areas they’d searched. “I…” he said, and stumbled over the words, “I… didn’t think you’d… notice.” ‘Notice’ said his mouth, but his eyes said ‘care’, and there was shock there that drove straight to Aaron’s core. “And I didn’t have my phone on me.”

“Well, they did,” Ethan said, fidgeting with his keys in his palm. “Be more careful next time.”

_Next time?_ Aaron asked after, as Spencer hit the bed and crashed out hard, almost immediately asleep.

_Happens sometimes,_ Spencer had mumbled, his voice slurred with exhaustion and eyelids heavy and almost purple. It hurt to look at him. _Don’t worry. Think I dealt with it. I’ll tell you next time, I promise…_

If Simon looked at him oddly when Aaron relayed this to him, Aaron was too tired to ask why. Just staggered back into the bedroom, slid under the covers with the other man, and fell asleep with his ear against that continued heartbeat.

 

* * *

 

_Working for a few days, S.R._ his texts would read, and Aaron grew to hate those ones. They were a far cry from their other texts, as the month grated on and pulled them further away from that awful night.

_I’m thinking about you. Lonely in this bed without you here._

_Just pretend I’m there. Close your eyes and use the imagination I know you have, S.R._

_Oh, I am._

‘Just friends’ wasn’t really going so well for them. Aaron was beginning to suspect it was going to hurtle to a very… climactic… end.

“Ground rules,” Aaron had said, as soon as he suspected they were out of the danger period, and Spencer had looked oddly excited at the idea of ‘regulations’ to live by. “You warn me if you’re going to vanish. You tell me if you’re craving. You _don’t_ go near anyone you’ve scored off of previously.” He paused. This last one was selfish, and he wasn’t at all sure he had the right to ask. “And…”

“What?” Spencer asked, pausing from where he was happily reading through all of Aaron’s previous coursework and marking where Aaron could improve. Editing appeared to just _do it_ for him, weirdly, but Aaron wasn’t going to complain because he was always extra cuddly afterwards. “And what?”

Blunt honesty was probably the best policy here. “I don’t think this is within my right to ask…” he said, trailing off, and Spencer rolled his eyes.

“Ask anyway,” he instructed, and turned back to a term paper. “Your argument is strong here, but you’ve worded it clumsily and it obscures your point.”

Aaron ignored that until he’d gotten past the words choking him. “I don’t want you to… I don’t want, uh…”

The scratch of the pen paused. “You don’t want me seeing other people?” Spencer murmured, his nose close enough to the paper that his hair was brushing against it as it tumbled forward, the glasses he only wore when his eyes were aching too much for contacts slipping down his nose. “That’s a valid request, for a partner. Not for a friend.”

Flushing red, Aaron snapped, “I know.” Closed his eyes and wished he could take that last fumbling request back. “I just… I’m jealous. Biased. I think of you with other people and I feel like something inside me is breaking. And I know I shouldn’t feel that way, I shouldn’t succumb to jealously, but what if it was me? If I was sleeping around because I was hurting and thought it was the only way I could feel something other than that hurt?”

Spencer shuddered, the pen rattling against the table and leaving a red mark on the paper. “Impossible,” he said, looking up. “I’d never let that happen to you. The idea of it…”

“Makes you feel sick?” Aaron pushed gently, and Spencer nodded. “I’m not… averse to being more. Less than partners, more than friends.” Spencer’s mouth dropped open, panic flickering across his features, and Aaron quickly rushed on with, “I’m not offering you something I don’t want. It doesn’t have to be sex, not completely. I don’t think I’m comfortable with that anyway, not… yet.”

Spencer tilted his head, curious. “Because of Cl—the woman? I’m clean. I use protection, always, and undergo regular check-ups.” A beat. “I’m skanky, not stupid.” The unexpected word hung in the air and Aaron barked out a laugh before he was even fully aware, relieved to hear even some small attempt at humour, no matter how dark.

“Not because of the woman,” Aaron said, and that wasn’t completely the truth. On impulse, he stood and walked towards his friend and tugged him upright, bringing a hand to his jaw. Spencer let himself be dragged upright, let Aaron tuck himself against him, his eyes shuttered and mouth turning soft and longing. “Because of this.”

“What is this?” Spencer asked, and Aaron was glad they were home alone, because the sighing mewl that slipped out was _delicious,_ as Aaron traced those fingers down his jaw, across his throat, resting on the pulse point and bringing his mouth to the stubbly corner of those lips. They relaxed there, Spencer’s breath hot on his cheek, his heart hammering in his chest, pliable and soft against Aaron’s body. Stupid. Reckless. _In too deep_ , his mind chanted, but he ignored it and kissed the corner of that mouth anyway. A clumsy, awkward kiss, and he felt goosebumps lifting on Spencer’s skin under his hand.

“Aaron,” Spencer whispered against his skin, bringing his own hand up to card though the back of Aaron’s hair, pulling their faces closer. “What is this?”

Aaron kissed him. A chaste kiss that lingered, and both their hearts felt like they stopped until it was over, leaving them unsteady and shaking against each other. “This,” Aaron breathed, and kissed him again, rougher this time, the fingers in his hair biting into his scalp and Spencer’s ass hitting the edge of the table. “Everything we’re feeling right now.”

A choked whimper of _want_ that had Aaron’s dick eagerly joining the proceedings, his misgivings only half putting a damper on the enthusiasm. “Too much feeling,” Spencer said, eyes huge, and this time he initiated the kiss, pushed into it, his tongue flickering against Aaron’s lips then sneaking in when Aaron slipped them open. It was hot, damp, captivating, and Aaron could probably get himself off on kissing alone if it was like this, he was stunned to realize. “This is dangerous. I can’t do this, not while I’m still recovering.”

Aaron had to be the one to pull back. He did, breathing hard, knowing his desire showed on his face and in his eyes, openly. “That’s okay,” he managed through a mouth that was sore from the unshaved scruff Spencer was sporting. “I’ll wait. And until then, we can do… less. But more. Does that make sense?”

“No,” replied Spencer pertly, readjusting his pants, and Aaron almost made a noise at realizing his friend was standing there, brazenly aroused and seemingly unperturbed by the state. _We just kissed,_ Aaron thought wildly, almost scared of the effect this strange, clever-stupid, _wonderful_ man had on him. _What the hell is wrong with me?_ “But I understand anyway. And I agree to your final clause… in part. I have no desire to seek the beds of strangers… but you’re more to me than just a body.” Eyes intent and locked on Aaron, he finished quietly, “If it happens between us, it needs to mean every bit as much as that moment did. I can wait until then.”

Aaron didn’t really know how to tell him that he suspected there’d never really been a question of it being him. His entire body hummed with the, eventual, idea of it. Fuck the logistics. If it was one iota as intense as kissing him was, he’d do whatever Spencer asked of him to bring that to the bedroom.

He honestly couldn’t imagine it any other way.

 

* * *

 

_Finishing early tonight. Want to come to a club with me? S.R._

Aaron hadn’t asked what kind of club, but when Spencer had appeared in his—and despite his irritation with whatever work kept taking his friend away for days at a time—decidedly attractive uniform, he hadn’t complained either. Just tagged after his friend and tried not to stare _too_ openly at the way the bowtie sat jauntily on his throat, or the way the belt barely helped his slacks cling to narrow hips.

“You’re dressed nice,” Spencer said with a smile, not at all surprised, and tugged at Aaron’s tie. Aaron smacked his hand away, a thrill tracing down his arm as their fingers tangled before they pulled apart, reticent always in public. “Ethan will be pleased. He’s always telling me I bring the tone of the establishment down from ‘hip’ to ‘librarian’.”

“We’re going to meet up with Ethan?” Aaron questioned, walking side by side in the warm August night, surrounded by the nightlife of downtown DC. It was loud, hot, and _alive_.

Spencer just smiled and ducked down a side alley, leading him to a red door set in the brick and slipping inside. Aaron followed curious, and found himself in what was unmistakably—at least for tonight—a jazz lounge. Spencer waved with a smile, and Aaron followed his gaze to see Ethan glance at them and smile from his place to the front, playing a haphazard beat on a piano that responded smoothly to his quick-paced fingers.

“He plays here some weekends,” Spencer explained, weaving through the tables, waving awkwardly at a few people who called out his name. “Sings occasionally, but he doesn’t like doing that often. Only when he needs some extra cash—the owner is great, though.”

“Yes I am!” boomed a loud voice, and Aaron turned to find a hearty man in a tan waistcoat and bulging slacks striding towards them. “Spencer! Long-time no see, friend! Who is this?”

Spencer nodded jerkily, despite the warm smile on his face. “This is my old friend, Aaron. Aaron, this is Jeremy. Said owner.”

Blue eyes studied him from the man’s thickset face. Despite his decidedly doughy demeanour, Jeremy’s eyes were sharp and his expression kind. “Pleasure to meet you, of course,” he said, shaking Aaron’s hand with a strong, clammy grip. “Allow me to gift your table with a bottle, if you’re planning on staying for some time, Dr. Reid.”

Spencer flushed in the red-warm light, his ears pinking. “That’s unnecessary,” he stammered, hands fumbling at his pocket for his wallet.

Jeremy shook his head as a reply, Aaron watching them interact with interest. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he barked. “Aaron, young Spencer here has quite the mind, I imagine you know. Got me out of a spot of bother with my bookkeeping recently. The least I can do is ensure you both a wonderful night—and Mr. Coiro, of course, once he’s finished playing.” He vanished with a surprising burst of speed, whistling to a bartender who hurried after him.

“His spot of trouble being that he wasn’t even keeping his books,” Spencer explained with a snort. “He’s an IRS nightmare. This place does fine, but he’s _awful_ at keeping records. Took me almost a week to unravel it all.”

Aaron followed him to a booth, one with an easy view of the piano at front. They slipped in, on separate times, always careful, and Aaron asked, “How did he know to ask you? That’s a bit of an odd thing for you to be notorious for.”

Spencer rolled his shoulders in a casual shrug, slouching back as the bartender appeared with a wine bottle and two glasses. “Jeremy says if you three don’t finish it, he’s going to employ Ethan to play nothing but Popcorn for a whole evening,” the bartender said with a flirty wink in Spencer’s direction, “as punishment for disrespecting his vintage.”

“Thanks, Alex,” Spencer said, looking anything but pleased as the glasses were poured. Aaron thanked him as well, slightly more at ease with what was clearly payment for services rendered rather than charity. “And I guess people in this district talk. Velvet isn’t far from here, and I do a lot of their accounting for them and their franchised locations.” He smiled finger tracing the stem of the glass without lifting it. “I’m terrible on bar. I broke eight mugs my first day, and jammed an ale tap. They decided to hide me away.”

Aaron tasted the wine, entirely unsure as to what a ‘good’ vintage comprised of, but entirely pleased with what was offered anyway. “They didn’t card us,” he murmured, pitching his voice low. “Surely they know how old you are?”

Another shrug. “They suspect, likely. My ID is far better than yours though.” He laughed, pushing the glass away and leaning back. “It has to be. If I shave, I look twelve.”

Aaron shot a look at him, at the long hair falling into his eyes and the sharp plane of his face. “No you don’t,” he said, and winced at the wistfulness in his voice. “You really don’t.”

Looking embarrassed, Spencer wiggled in the chair, the leather creaking under him. “How about I _don’t_ regale you with the history of jazz,” he said suddenly, leaning forward with his eyes smiling, “and instead discuss my research into relationship factors affecting the behaviour of disorganized spree killers.” He paused, blinking rapidly. “If that’s what you’re interested in.”

Aaron tried not to look _too_ intrigued by that topic. “Deal,” he said, shuffling slightly closer. “Is there a but in this, decidedly in my favour, agreement?”

Spencer shoved the bottle towards him with a sharp grin. “Drink this,” he said. “I don’t drink, and I’d prefer to keep my housemate _somewhat_ sober while we walk him home. Otherwise it’s like herding cats—he gets excited about signposts and runs off to see what they say.”

Laughing easily, Aaron settled into the chair, pleased with the slow unfolding of a peaceful night, the warm atmosphere and the relaxing, heady mix of the wine. “Okay,” he agreed, and leaned forward to listen, “but one bottle is hardly enough to put one of us under, let alone two. I think you’ll be fine.”

Spencer just raised his eyebrows.

 

* * *

 

Jeremy, as it turned out, had a wonderful way about him. A wonderfully way. Wonderfully wonderful. “Wonderful,” Aaron repeated under his breath, frowning at the sound it made. “What an odd word. Strange word.”

Ethan said very little, just laughed and bounced away, up the street, eyes intent on a wonky street sign hanging crookedly near a quiet intersection. Spencer yelled his name, took two steps after, then stopped with a sigh and threw his arms in the air. “Herding cats!” he shouted after his housemate, who responded by singing loudly and earning himself a _fuck off_ from two people walking up the street. Spencer turned to Aaron, mock-frowning. “You’re a disgrace,” he told him seriously, and Aaron beamed at him. Giddy-happy.

“And you’re wonderful,” he retorted. “Isn’t that an odd word?” Spencer stared. Aaron tried again, “You’re an odd word. Jeremy is a very persuasive man.”

“I noticed,” Spencer said with a sigh, stepping forward. “You’re listing alarmingly to the left. Come here.”

Aaron went. Eagerly. Snuggled against the arm wrapped around him, tucking his nose into the warm-sweet dip of his collarbone and wondering what Spencer would do if he _nipped_ right there. Just a little. Tried to do it, but the listing was becoming a lot more… listingly, and the ground wavered up towards him. “Uh oh,” he said, and the arm caught him and dragged him upright again. “Am I drunk?”

“No,” came the wry reply. “You think?” Aaron turned his best smile on that dry retort, the one he knew made his face a little silly and far too open, but he figured Spencer deserved it. Knew he’d done right when the man holding him upright practically melted at the look, his own face softening.

Aaron leaned closer, using his hand to gesture Spencer in. “Shh,” he breathed, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. His breath ruffled the hair curled deliciously around Spencer’s ear, his lips brushing the shell, and Spencer sucked in a sharp inhale. “I am drunk. I’m many things. Drunk is one of them.”

“You’re also ridiculous,” Spencer said, guiding him forward. Aaron looked down, focused intently on placing his feet in the same pattern as Spencer’s, then looked back at him. “And silly. And _heavy_.”

Aaron was good at lists. “I’m good at math, also,” he added seriously, “but probably not as good as you.” They passed under another streetlight, the yellow light catching Spencer’s face _just so_ , and Aaron realized another thing he was. “Many things,” he whispered, closing his eyes and going a bit heavier as he tried to focus on finding his words and his feet and his heart all at once. “And in love. I’m in love.” The ground dipped more, bringing him with it, but the words were hot and burst from him like a confession, and he opened his eyes to laugh with them. Spencer stared, eyes huge in his face and mouth gaping open, pole-axed, and Aaron laughed at that too because he looked _absurd._ Shouted, just because he could, “I’m in love!” and then fell.

Spencer didn’t catch him that time, but it was okay, because at least the view was nice.

 

* * *

 

Spencer had showered first while waiting for ‘you to sober enough you don’t knock yourself out in there’, and this was shitty because he’d used all the hot water. It was also a good thing, because Aaron was finding that the shower stall smelled like Spencer’s shampoo and his soap, and he’d left his uniform hanging on the towel rack. Drying himself clumsily, managing to half-dress himself and only bashing his elbow once on the wall, Aaron eyed that uniform. The belt he was thankful for, for leading him to this moment, the shirt that made his shoulders look wider, the…

“Hmm,” said Aaron, scooping up the item that had caught his eye. Accidentally knocking the rest of the uniform, and his own clean shirt, into the water puddling around his feet and sticking his loose pyjama pants to his legs. Thin flannel, they draped instead of hung, dark trails of water marking them where he’d missed patting himself dry.

_Oops_ , he thought, looking down at the shirt. He’d have to borrow one. Or just sleep shirtless. It was hot enough to. He looked back at his hand, and grinned. Slipped the bowtie on, fingers oddly nimble at this one job despite their failure at doing _anything_ else remotely useful, and made his steady way out to the living room. Not sober. Not by far. But bed beckoned and he was clean and happy and, above all, desperate to lay down next to his friend and pull him close.

“Well, hi there,” he said, stepping sideways out from the doorway to grin goofily at Spencer’s back as the man made a coffee. “This is entirely appropriate sleepwear, yes?”

Spencer sighed, turning with an affectionate smile on his mouth, and stopped. Stared at Aaron.

Worried for a moment he’d done something wrong, Aaron looked down too. At the pants that _clung_ and the water still on his chest, and probably more than anything, the bowtie. Looked back up at Spencer. “Ahh,” he said, trying to blink himself sober and failing, “I wasn’t actually going for the male stripper look. I did _not_ think this through.”

Spencer leaned back against the counter, hands over his mouth and eyes still laughing. Mumbled something into those hands. Aaron frowned, walking over to him, and he repeated, “I don’t mind.” Traced his eyes up and down Aaron’s chest, lingered lower, “…at all, really.”

The temptation was sudden, cheeky, and entirely impossible to resist. “Interesting,” Aaron rumbled, the alcohol and the realization of their proximity combining to deepen his voice. Stepped closer yet, one knee pressing between Spencer’s legs and pushing them apart, finding that spot on his neck again as the other man made a noise of surprise. “I’ll have to keep this new information in… _mind_.”

He punctuated his sentence with a nip at that pale throat, sucking gently and pulling away. Spencer made another noise, ragged, goading him on. Kissing his neck, his jaw, his mouth; as soon as their lips touched they were hungrily pressing into each other, hands roaming desperately, Aaron using his leg to lever himself close enough that he felt the swelling interest in the other man’s pants.

“Aaron,” mumbled Spencer, as Aaron traced his hands around the elastic of those concealing pants. Closed his eyes with a soft hiss as Aaron slipped his fingers under the waistband, cupping his hip and tracing the sensitive skin there. “Mmm, yes, but no. Stop. Come on, you’re drunk.”

“You’re not,” Aaron pointed out, rolling his hips forward slowly and moaning in a deep rumble as he felt Spencer’s leg shift tantalizingly against him. Slipped his hand around, across, a thrill rattling through him at the realization Spence had nothing else under these thin pants. Slipped it lower, fingers brushing hot flesh, and Spencer hissed and surged back against the counter with a harsh cry, jolting the coffee and spilling it down his back. Aaron swore, dragging him away from the hot liquid and grabbing at a towel, but Spencer skittered away from his hands.

“Don’t,” he snapped, the whites of his eyes showing before he snapped them shut and ripped his shirt off, tossing it into the corner. “Ah, _fuck_.”

Wetting the towel, Aaron shoved back panic, back fear, and moved closer, holding the towel out with two fingers, not intruding on Spencer’s space, his mind buzzing behind the thick haze of alcohol. “Let me help,” he said, his voice still low and rough. “I’m sorry, shit. Come here, please.”

Spencer looked at him. Nodded. Turned his back so Aaron could gently pat at the scalding red mark spreading across his spine and down under his torso. “It wasn’t hot enough to burn,” he said, and Aaron noted his hands were shaking. “New disclaimer. Are you listening?”

Aaron nodded, his face hot and skin on too tight, knowing he’d fucked up and without the brainpower to work out if it was touching him _now_ or touching him at all.

“Not when you’ve been drinking,” Spencer said intently. Aaron backed away, still wordless in his shame, but he followed. “Hey, hey, don’t do that. I’m not angry, you… startled me. I wasn’t ready. We don’t do _anything_ if either of us is under the influence of something, okay?” Hands moving slowly, he inched closer, wrapped them around Aaron, hugged him tight with his head resting on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I…” He paused. Even drunk, Aaron watched the lie. Never a good liar. “… I don’t like the smell of alcohol. It makes me feel ill.”

“That’s not true,” Aaron murmured, feeling Spencer turn rigid in his arms. “I’m not so drunk I can’t consent, Spence. Is that what you’re worried about? Or is it…” He paused. “I only have evidence that you’ve slept with _women_. I…”

Spencer huffed. “I don’t generally have a gender preference,” he muttered irritably, twitching hair out of his eyes, “and it’s not a lie. I _don’t_ like the smell of alcohol. You’re too pliable like this. Easily swayed. I won’t use alcohol as a crutch to get you into my bed. You don’t even remember what you said on the way home, do you?”

Aaron frowned, using the pads of his fingers to explore Spencer’s back, trying to make sure without being too obvious that the coffee really _hadn’t_ hurt him. “Something about being wonderful?” he asked, poking back into his hazy recollection. He ached. Still wanted, despite the shock-horror Spencer’s sudden fear. Too much build up, not enough to release, and his head was hurting on top of it all.

Sleep would be nice. Sleep and… just sleep.

“Bedtime,” Spencer said, throwing the towel from Aaron’s hands onto the bench over the coffee spill. “ _Just_ bedtime. And drink this water.”

“Yes, sir,” Aaron said obediently, sure he probably didn’t want to push too many more boundaries tonight, and also sure that he was probably going to be _really_ unhappy when he woke in the morning and looked back over this. “No funny business, I promise. I will be… a Saint. Saint Aaron.”

Spencer laughed, relieving the nervous tension. “And Aaron?”

“Yes?”

Hazel eyes met his, skimmed down. “Mind losing the bowtie?”


	31. October, 2001

**FROM ETHAN: BAD NIGHT. I HAVE WORK. COME OVER.**

It was the second time he’d gotten a text like this. The first had gone fine. They’d watched movies, teased each other, and Aaron had hardly been able to see the battle that had been going on behind Spencer’s dark eyes.

This one was rougher.

Aaron got it and froze. Stared at it. Simon rambled on from where he was trying to tutor Kate through her first assignment for the semester, her frustrated replies that she just wasn’t getting it getting louder as they bickered.

“Aaron, help me out. You’re messing up the correlations, Kay. Look, like… Aaron?”

Aaron snapped his head up, found both of them staring at him. Looked at the calendar behind them. _It’s his birthday tomorrow._ “I have to go to Spencer’s,” he said numbly, wondering what he was about to walk into. “You reckon you can drop me off?”

All Simon did was nod slowly, his eyes skipping to Kate.

And the night began.

“I’ll pick you up at nine tomorrow morning, alright?” Simon called after him as he slid out the car. “You’ve got a seminar on you can’t miss.” Aaron nodded, mumbled thanks, closed the door. _Ka-thunk_. The noise echoed with finality. And he climbed the stairs, dodging the now broken front door. He had a key. Spencer had given it to him, with a casual shrug and an _in case you need it_ ; it was the only concession either of them had made to the fact that Aaron was more likely to need access in a hurry to Spencer’s home than Spencer to Aaron’s. Unlocked his front door, stepped inside, and found Spencer pacing.

“You alright?” he asked, cautious. Whirling, Spencer’s face was a mask, unfamiliar, all of the stranger without any of the passiveness.

“I’m fine!” he snarled, resuming his pacing. “Why are you here? I _don’t_ need a babysitter.”

Later that night, they’d fight. They’d shout and snap and say things both would regret in the morning. Spencer would fall into an uneasy sleep and wake up every hour white-faced and sweating. Later that night, he’d make an excuse to leave, take two steps to the door, shudder, and walk back to his bedroom, curling up on his bed.

Later that night, Aaron would hold him silently while they both pretended they didn’t know he was crying.

But none of that had happened yet. Instead, Aaron took a deep breath and said, “What about a friend?”

And Spencer smiled weakly and said, _please_.

 

* * *

 

Dragging himself out of bed the next morning was _agonising._ About an hour’s broken sleep pulled him down, turning his mouth dry and his eyes gritty. He hurt with how tired he was, and almost envied Spencer the deep slumber he’d finally dropped into. Aaron slept deeply, usually; Spencer lightly. A single noise was normally enough to have him snapping awake, eyes oddly alert despite his brain skipping to catch up. But on this morning, Aaron stubbed his toe on the ratty carpet, swore loudly, and Spencer didn’t even twitch. Fucking exhausted. They both were. But Spencer wasn’t the one who had to get up and go to college, to a day full of classes, and Aaron scowled at him as his temper fouled. _Not even a thanks_ , he thought crankily, dressing in yesterday’s clothes, grabbing his cell, checking the time—and the date. _Oh_.

Pushing the mood aside with a hum of something almost soft, he crouched and brought his lips to the sleeping man’s mouth. Spencer made a _mmm_ noise, tilting his jaw automatically towards him. “Happy birthday, love,” Aaron whispered, kissing him to muffle the words. It wouldn’t do for him to realize that Aaron remembered that night perfectly; the unsteady walk home, the light catching his friend’s skin, the words he’d shouted and absolutely meant.

_Guess I never had a choice about my heart being involved_ , he thought, smiling around that slack mouth, and stood. He’d come back after, say happy birthday properly. Bring the gift he’d bought. Picking his shoes up and sneaking from the room, he tugged the door shut quietly behind him— _snick_ —and turned. The TV hummed softly, the title screen of a DVD repeating endlessly in a loop. Ethan had finally replaced the battered old VCR, much to Spencer’s disgust, after the machine had eaten his favourite tape and spat out a black spool instead of the anticipated _Blues in the Night._ Aaron tiptoed to the door, peering over the back of the couch and expecting to see Ethan sprawled there, still in his uniform, mouth hanging open. A common enough sight.

Instead, a woman blinked up at him, wide awake. Eyes sharp and cautious, her body shifted into what he immediately recognised as a defensive position even from her spot on the floor. He’d been shown it when he’d taken self-defence classes, shown it again at boxing class when they’d showed him how to get up quickly if he went down.

“Sorry,” he said, holding his hands up with his shoes hanging from his left. “Didn’t mean to wake you. I’m just leaving.”

“It’s no problem,” she said, settling down and tugging the blanket back over her knees. “I just wasn’t expecting anyone awake this early. You Ethan’s housemate?” The smile he received was beaming, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Spencer, right?”

Aaron blinked. “Uh,” he said, and tried to think of a way to answer this. “Not… no. I’m just a friend.”

Brown eyes widened on a narrow face. Aaron couldn’t quite place why her features seemed so oddly striking, almost… “Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.” The smile vanished slightly, and she examined him. A quick sweep, top to toe, and he felt _exposed_. Judged, almost. “Sorry, I’m being rude. I’ve forgotten your name!”

“I didn’t give it.” Aaron felt his phone hum as he glanced at his watch. _Simon_. “Aaron. Aaron Hotchner.”

She nodded, the cat-smile back. When she smiled like that, like she was completely confident in herself and her place, Aaron wasn’t surprised Ethan had brought her home. There was something _peppery_ about that smile. Something that would make more sensible men than Ethan do stupid things just to see it again. “Well, hello, Aaron Hotchner,” she said with a barked laugh, barely muffled. “I’m Elle. Elle Murdoch. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

Cocky. Clearly no intentions of being a one-night stand. Aaron grinned, his temper fading at the curious thought that maybe Ethan had _no_ idea what he’d gotten himself into, and murmured an agreement and a farewell, slipping from the apartment. _Can’t wait to see how that pans out_ , he thought absently, jogging to the Nissan idling on the roadside and putting it out of his mind.

 

* * *

 

Yawning wide enough to feel his jaw crack, Aaron let his head drop forward onto the table, knocking his temple on the wood. Spencer glanced at him, eyes appearing above the book Aaron had brought him and he was hungrily reading. “I’m sorry,” he said, wincing, lowering the book. “We could have stayed home. I _said_ we should stay home.”

“No, no,” Aaron said quickly, sitting upright and grinning just to show how _awake_ he was. “I’m fine. Awake. Look how awake I am.” Widening his eyes, he grinned at Spencer, laughing as the man looked horrified by the expression.

“That’s terrifying, stop doing that,” Spencer demanded, then looked past him. “Oh no.”

“Happy birthday!” shrieked Kate, almost lurching forward to hug him. “Oh, it feels like only months ago I met you and now you’re all grown up!” Eyes skipped over to them from around the restaurant as Simon followed catching Kate’s arm before she gave in and hugged him in her excitement. Spencer wasn’t big on… touching, in general. A startling revelation, since he’d never had a problem with Aaron touching him and Aaron was sure this wasn’t an issue he’d had when they were kids.

“We did only meet him months ago,” Simon reminded her, taking his seat. “Happy Birthday, Squeak.”

Spencer frowned. “Squeak?” he mouthed at Aaron, who just inched his chair around closer to make room and grinned. “How many people did you _invite_?”

“Well, I figured you’d end up being all crabby and anti-social,” Aaron said sweetly, making sure his face was innocent, “so… everyone we know.”

“Which means the only person you’re missing is Ethan,” Spencer said after a beat. “Because you’re just as anti-social as I am, you just hide it better.”

“He’s coming,” Aaron replied, checking his phone. “Messaged before to say he was held up, and bringing a friend.” He remembered that morning with a rush. “Oh, probably the woman he had over last night.”

Kate had apparently noted Spencer’s book and—with a relieved glance at it—taken it as permission to tug a textbook out of her own bag and begin marking notes with it propped against her glass and Simon leaning over her shoulder and making comments.

Spencer blinked. “Ethan had a woman over?” he asked, giving up on the book and reaching for his water bottle, taking a mouthful. “He doesn’t date? Not as a general rule, anyway.” He paused. “I don’t think he’s _ever_ brought anyone home before.”

A laugh sounded out behind Aaron. Turning, he found Ethan and—Elle? —walking towards them. “I’m tenacious,” she said with a wink, and Ethan’s mouth twitched. “Happy Birthday, Spencer. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Silence followed that, and Aaron glanced at Spencer and noted with a spark of concern the mulish kind of look he got right before he put his foot in his mouth. “Wish I could say the same,” he said, frowning, and Aaron kicked him. “Ah! Aaron, wh—I mean, hello. Um. I don’t know your name.”

“Elle.” She didn’t try to shake his hand or push into his space, both signs that Ethan had told her how to react, instead just taking a seat next to Ethan and—with a show of skill that Aaron envied—began quizzing Spencer on his current doctorate studies, drawing him slowly and easily into relaxed conversation.

Aaron slipped his cell out from his pocket, tapping out a quick text to Ethan without looking. _Where did you find her?_

Ethan barely even broke the flow of the story he was telling before responding much the same. _She’s interesting. Started hanging out at VU last month. Problem?_

Aaron eyed her. Her eyes flickered to him, and then back to Spencer, bright with an interest that Aaron understood. Like this, alive with passion for his studies, Spencer was _fascinating_. It wasn’t so odd that she was here. Not really. Or that her focus was entirely on Spencer the entire night. After all, _Aaron’s_ focus tended towards Spencer as well, when Simon wasn’t talking to him.

His cell buzzed again. Ethan.

_Testing a theory. That’s why I brought her._

_Oh yeah? What theory??_

_Just exactly who she’s interested in._

Aaron’s head snapped up, met Ethan’s gaze as he sipped from his glass, and then slowly slid his eyes to look at Spencer and Elle deep in conversation about—not even surprisingly, knowing Spencer—sexual sadists.

_Spencer???_

One last text. Aaron stared at it, then reached his hand under the table to tangle his fingers around Spencer’s. Spencer glanced down, surprised, before smiling and squeezing his hand affectionately.

_Keep an eye on her, Hotchner. I can’t read her. I don’t like not being able to read people._

Aaron didn’t either.


	32. November, 2001

Aaron woke up to find two wide, hazel eyes floating overhead. He tensed, shook away the startled reaction to strike upwards, and said, “You’re really creepy, you know that?”

The hazel eyes turning into a stupid grin as Spencer beamed down at him. “It’s your birthday,” he said redundantly, and Aaron scowled because he’d never had a good birthday and really rather wished everyone would just forget about it. “Happy birthday!”

“Woo,” Aaron grumbled, rolling out from under his weird-ass bed-mate and staring moodily at the wall. The wall that was obscured moments later by a badly wrapped package held together with packing string. “Spence, I said no gifts!”

There was a slow huff behind him. “You said no buying gifts,” he said finally, and the package bobbed in his hands as he turned it over slowly. “And I… well, didn’t really. Not _this_ year, anyway.” Aaron frowned, taking the present carefully and examining the scratchy handwriting, his heart in his throat. _Happy Birthday, Aaron!_ it proclaimed in big, excited letters that were nothing like the Spencer’s tightly wound scrawl now. _You’re sixteen now, so now who’s old?? Still just a kid though, always._

“You got this for me,” he breathed, flipping it and examining it. “Before you… it’s been rewrapped?”

“I added a little bit,” Spencer explained, sliding closer on the bed and folding his knees up. “I never sent it. Things got complicated, and it just… well, got put aside for a while. Four years a while.” He blinked rapidly. “I’m sorry for that.”

“Don’t be,” Aaron said huskily, carefully untying the string and the tape holding it all together, revealing a plain bound book. The spine protested as he opened it, a soft _oh_ slipping from his mouth. _Our Halcyon Days_ in a careful print, leading into… their story. He’d bound their stories. _All_ of their stories. And tucked in the book, the pages misshapen around it…

It was a one-year coin. A Narcotics Anonymous one-year coin.

And it meant more than anything else he could have been given. “Oh, Spence. This is…”

“Sappy? Lame?” Spencer made a snorting noise. “Kind of naive? All of the above?”

“Amazing,” Aaron corrected, rolling back to him and dragging his mouth in for a frantic, stubbly kiss, the coin hot in his palm. “Amazing, you’re amazing.”

“Or that,” Spencer breathed, giving into the kiss. They were late for breakfast, Simon made sly comments about their hair, but Aaron couldn’t stop smiling.

 

* * *

 

Spencer took them all to Jeremy’s club. “No drinking tonight,” Aaron promised Spencer, snagging a packet of peanuts out of his hands and eating a handful. “I want to remember it _all_.”

He received an odd look in reply. “What’s going to happen that’s so important to remember?” he asked, even as Jeremy made good headway on getting the rest of their motley group—Ethan, Simon, and Elle, with Kate working that night—extremely drunk to make up for Spencer and Aaron’s sobriety. Aaron didn’t have an answer for that, but he was sure it was going to be fantastic. Spencer had gone out of his way to make sure the day was _fantastic_ , and Aaron was helplessly dizzy just on that. On the warm something that made his mouth tilt up into a smile, the thump of their hearts, the laughter of the people around them. People who were there purely _for_ Aaron, because they cared and wanted to be there. On the funny overwhelming feeling in his chest that was wide and small at all once, aimed only at one target, and he was frighteningly aware was probably more love than he knew how to deal with.

“Did you know,” Ethan proclaimed drunkenly at some point of the night, “that I don’t _only_ know how to play jazz?”

“I don’t believe that,” Aaron said immediately, having seen Ethan’s bookcase and the dozens of books almost solely on jazz he had in there. “Prove it!”

So, he did.

“Come on then, birthday boy!” Simon shouted, dragging Aaron up, Spencer following and protesting Aaron’s kidnapping. “Get out there!” He shoved Aaron in the direction of a singular cleared space before bowing and offering his hand to Elle, as Ethan tapped out a fast-paced rendition of _Stand By Me_ on the club piano. Spencer stared. Aaron considered walking away, as Simon seemed plenty distracted now, his head tipped close to Elle’s as he dragged her into a waltzing dance that was nothing at all attuned to the song actually being played. Ethan shouted something, adjusting his playing to match, other patrons joining them in dancing.

“Do you actually know how to dance?” he asked instead of walking away, and Spencer grinned and bounded forward.

“Oddly enough,” he said, nodding his head in an excited rhythm, “I do. May I?”

Drawn around the other dancers, Spencer leading confidentially, Aaron thought this might actually be his best birthday yet.

And he was determined to remember all of it.

 

* * *

 

They were sober but silly anyway as they stumbled home. Aaron felt magnetic, irrevocably drawn towards the man at his side, their hands brushing with every step.

“Others won’t be home for hours,” he said, closing his apartment door and flicking the lock. “We can watch a movie?”

“Alright,” Spence agreed placidly, vanishing to change into his pyjamas and sprawling on the couch, leaving room for Aaron to join him. Aaron changed as well, shoved the DVD on in record time, and folded himself into the space in front. Both laying along the couch, Spencer behind him with his arm hooked over his side and hand draped on his belly; it was a ridiculously comfortable position, especially with a warm blanket wrapped around them both to block out the winter chill. “Did you have a good birthday?” he asked as the movie rambled on, the room lit only by the blue light of the screen dancing off of every surface. His breath was warm against the back of Aaron’s neck, and Aaron wriggled back sleepily into that firm body and smiled.

“The best,” he said, meaning it, and a warm bubble of something happy pushed into his chest and made itself home. Spencer pulled his arm tighter, tugging him close, and this wasn’t something Aaron had ever really considered—being spooned by a man while watching _Die Hard_ —but he was finding that it really was the best way to end a spectacular day. “You?”

“Mmm,” Spencer hummed, the noise rumbling through Aaron’s chest. Lips brushed the back of Aaron’s neck, leaving a trail of tingles dancing down his spine. “It could still improve.”

Aaron tried to turn his head back to look at him, and Spencer ducked his head down to mouth damply at the base of his neck, setting every nerve in Aaron’s body to clamouring. “How so?” he asked, his voice oddly light, shifting his hips as the tingles worked down to his crotch and gathered as a tight, building pressure. “Movie not to taste?”

“Not watching the movie,” Spencer said into his skin, one hand sliding up his shirt to trace along his ribs. Aaron sucked in a breath and felt that hand settle, the fingers working in slow, steady circles, curling over his side. “You’re too…” He broke the sentence by pausing and rocking forward, firm and hot as he pressed against Aaron’s ass. “… _distracting.”_ Aaron choked back a gasp as the hard touch set his body aflame, feeling Spencer’s fingers bite in and release with the sway of his body.

“Do that again,” he said softly, as Spencer kissed his shoulder, feeling the hips move up and rub against him once more, the sighing exhale of breath against his skin at the pressure. “That’s… oh, that’s…” He couldn’t find his words, just wanted more; wanted to grind back hard against him until they were both sweaty, panting messes, wanted to roll over and press against him while they kissed until they were lost in each other. Wanted his hands or his mouth or his cock or a mixture of everything and wanted it _now_.

“Turning you on?” Spencer whispered to his ear, nipping at the lobe, and Jesus fuck _yes yes yes a thousand times yes._ Aaron nodded helplessly, lips brushing his ear, breathing rapid. “Making you _hard_.” He inflected the word _hard_ ruthlessly, turning it into a growl from his chest that worked its way through Aaron’s entire body until it reached his dick, actually drawing a twitch of frantic interest from it, a damp, pulsing heat.

“The fuck do you think?” he choked out with a laugh, tilting his head back and being rewarded by a line of kisses along the side of his throat. Lashes brushed against his neck as Spencer leaned in close, and Aaron knew he was smiling because he could feel his lips curling upwards, hear it in his heavy breathing.

“May I?” Spencer asked softly, his hand lowering, and oh god. Aaron’s brain tripped and turned off for a second, his hips rocking forward almost involuntarily at the thought. “I’ve been hard since you laid down. It’s all I can think about… what you feel like right now, if I can make you feel _more_ …”

“Please,” Aaron breathed, and the hand snuck lower. Slowly. Painfully slowly, and he was frozen still waiting, his chest tight and breath stalled and entire body throbbing with the tension.

“How long until the others come home?” Spencer murmured, pausing with his hand on Aaron’s hip. Aaron blinked, tried to turn his brain back on, glanced at the display of the forgotten DVD player, murmured, _not for two hours_ , and Spencer basically fucking _moaned_ , _“good.”_ Another hand came into play, his mouth still kissing at his back and shoulders, fingers hooking around the waistband of his sweatpants. “Hips up,” he whispered, “I want to take these off so I can feel you. _All_ of you.”

Aaron whimpered, shaking, doing exactly as he was told. Miles out of his depth without a lifeboat, but feeling insanely safe despite that. Absolute trust in his partner. Spencer wouldn’t let him drown. He helped, somehow, despite feeling oddly lost in the throb of blood working to draw all his attention down to the need between his legs and the rapid tattoo Spencer’s heart was working against his back. Even managed a, “Not fair, unless you’re naked too,” which felt cheeky and sharp and almost too much for him to ask for.

Pants off, already shirtless and having foregone boxers anyway, he felt bare and open despite the blanket wrapped snuggly around them. Spencer chuckled, a warm, deep chuckle, and shifted back, leaving him cold. Moved around, unconstrained by the heavy covering, and when he came back, he pressed warm, smooth skin against Aaron’s back and spine, wrapping his arms around him. _Oh my god_ , Aaron thought, wanting to look but not knowing how, his ears and chest burning.

There was a waiting moment, a shift of legs, and Spencer settled properly and curled flush against Aaron’s back. A beat as Aaron’s brain realized what he was feeling, a second beat as the _other_ brain actually in control right now caught up, and then everything was focused on the silky-damp cock pressed against his ass, sliding between his legs as the man he was ridiculously in love with nestled in close and kissed hungrily at every bump of his spine.

“I can feel you,” Aaron murmured, stupidly because _duh_ , but something about that line must have hit home because the kisses paused to be replaced by a deep-seated groan that sounded like it _hurt_ to voice, his hips bumping forward, once, twice, leaving a slick trace of his arousal behind along the inside of Aaron’s thigh. “Oh Christ, feel that. You’re so fucking hard, _Christ.”_

“Language,” Spencer replied, his voice impossibly deep and throaty. “And, obviously. You are, as I’ve told you, _gorgeous_. And very, very…” He paused again, this trick again, but despite expecting it, it didn’t stop the shock when he rutted forward almost roughly and growled, “naked.”

The hand was back, sliding over his hip, and Aaron opened his mouth to respond, but it chose that moment to _oh_. Oh, oh, oh and he tipped his head back and gasped for air as it curled around him with just the right amount of pressure and began to move with careful, needy precision. He moved with it, rolling his hips and feeling the rest of his body cant with it, his breath speeding up and becoming shallow, choked. This was like nothing he’d had before. Like nothing.

This was everything.

“Spencer,” he moaned, as a clever, clever thumb rolled over the head and spread his mounting arousal down him, using it to move faster, grip harder. “You’re going to make me come.” He actually felt the throb of _want_ that passed through the other man at this, somehow hardening _more_ against him. “I want…” Didn’t know what he wanted, just that he was going to say something, anything. Anything to feel that throb again, feel that smile, hear that ragged breathing behind him stall. Anything to cause the wild surge of kissing anything he could reach that Spencer occasionally shuddered into, trying to channel his arousal into showing Aaron how much he wanted/needed/loved this.

“What do you want?” Spencer choked out, the words squeezing from his mouth, and Aaron knew. Reached down to tangle his fingers around Spencer’s hand, his cock, resisting the urge to pump his hips forward. “Tell me, Aaron, please.”

“You,” he told him, rolling around awkwardly until his torso was twisted and he could look into his love’s eyes. Note the wild desire there, the huge pupils, the white of his lip where he’d bitten at it and the glorious pink flush working down his cheeks and staining his throat and chest. “All of you, everything—” He had to stop because Spencer surged forward with a whine and kissed him like he never had before, wet and choking and needy, like he was trying to crawl inside him, and Aaron understood that need because he burned with it too. Anything. He’d do anything for this. Rolled over completely, hooked a leg over the other man and dragged him close, their chests sticking with sweat and arms dragging against each other, their hips grinding together hard enough to bruise. “Can I try?” he asked, and glanced down, nervous suddenly, terrified of making a mistake.

Spencer just stared at him, his hair an absolute mess and skin flushed. He nodded, eyes huge. “You don’t have to,” he said eventually, but Aaron could hear the shock/want in his tone. Smiled, kissed him again, and began to slowly work his way down the slender body bared to him. Kissing in a slow trail down his chest, mind frozen with nerves about what he’d do when he reached his destination. Spencer was a rigid, shaking form against him, his eyes locked on Aaron every time Aaron glanced back up. He paused, taking in a deep breath, softening with a creeping anxiety. Spencer was _good_ at this, insanely good, and Aaron hadn’t even… he swallowed, and looked down. Hadn’t even _seen_ another naked man in this context, aroused and focused on him. Studied the cock jutting out proudly, the wet traces of pre-come smeared along it, the tight skin that was warm and silky to the touch when he reached down curiously and traced his fingers along it, enjoying the heave of Spencer’s chest at the tender brush of his hand.

“Are you okay?” Spencer asked, his voice breaking the waiting spell, and Aaron shook himself. Realized he was lost.

Realized he wasn’t alone.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said honestly, looking back up at the man watching him, his hand carding tenderly through Aaron’s hair. “Help me?”

Spencer blinked, and smiled. “Oh love,” he breathed, and Aaron felt his heart skip two beats and them _slam_ in his chest to make up for it. _Love love love love_. “Of course. You only ever have to ask.” His hand traced around to Aaron’s jaw. “Are you sure?” A nod. “Would it help if I demonstrated?” Another nod, along with a resurgence of _want_. “Okay. I’m going to kneel, it’s easier for me, can you sit up?” Aaron obeyed, dizzy with this moment, drawing the blanket back over Spencer’s shoulders as the other man slid to the floor and shuffled around to place himself between Aaron’s splayed legs, his eyes still locked on Aaron’s face and mouth tenderly shaped.

He wanted this. Wanted to do this one thing, not only for Spencer but for himself, because there was something impossibly arousing about giving pleasure to someone else, and he wanted to be responsible for that.

“Slow,” Spencer murmured, leaning forward, and Aaron was paralysed and _alive_. Watched hungrily as the other man mouthed at his hip, tongue darting over the shape of his pelvic bone, Aaron’s cock brushing his cheek. Continued that mouthing along the line where his leg creased, using his tongue to leave a gentle pressure. Kissed his inner thigh, his skin, using his hand to shift Aaron’s legs where he wanted them, smoothing the rough curls of hair that Aaron trimmed but had never thought beyond that. “Do you know what you like?” he asked, his eyes flicking upwards to lock onto Aaron’s, and _oh_ , that was insanely hot. Aaron shook his head, mouth too dry to respond, and Spencer smiled. “Never mind. We’ll find out. We have all the time in the world.”

_Oh._ Just _those_ words were enough to set his brain to unsteady.

“I like it slow,” Spencer was explaining, “steady, and don’t be afraid to be messy if you need to. You’re less likely to gag if you’re not worrying about making a mess.” And with that, his eyes shuttered slightly with hunger and he bowed his mouth over Aaron, kissing the head once, breathing a single hot breath against it, and wrapping his lips around. Slow, indeed.

_Ohh_ , Aaron thought again, and made an embarrassing noise as the man began to work his way down. Slowly, carefully, paying attention to every part of him. Pressed his tongue under the shaft and drew it _up_ in a swift move that felt like it was pulling every part of Aaron out through his dick, bucking upwards. Spencer moved with him easily, anticipating the sudden move and using his hand to press him back down by his hip. Slipped off with a wet sound, and looked up at Aaron, breathing heavily with his mouth shiny-red. “Do that if I lose my head a little,” he panted. “Entirely a possibility, with the sheer amount of times I’ve imagined your mouth wrapped around me.”

_Fuck me,_ Aaron thought blankly, swallowing down those words and committing them to memory. _Do you even fucking know how hot that is?!_

“Ignore this next bit,” Spencer continued with a wink, “because you’ll choke if you’re not prepared.” Before Aaron could frown and ask what the hell that meant, Spencer ducked back down, took him in one slow slide, and used his tongue again at the same time his hand came free of Aaron’s hip and instead crept between his legs to curl gently around his balls. Aaron yelped, bucking again, almost fucking _coming_ right then, and instead of controlling the movement, Spencer swallowed him down almost to the fucking base. Aaron throbbed, his vision whiting out a little and ears rushing, and only a distant part of him was aware of almost crying out his partner’s name; a ragged, warning, _Spencer, no no no, I’m, ah—_ and then coming in a pulling, rushing mess that pulsed into a throat that swallowed and drove him fucking _mad_. Looking down, still making stupid impossible noises, and finding himself staring straight into hazel eyes turned dark as Spencer didn’t break eye contact.

“Holy fuck,” Aaron choked, and crumpled back, hips twitching as he softened inside Spencer’s mouth. Whining as a gentle tongue lapped at him, too sensitive, _oh oh_ , before lifting away. Vaguely aware of Spencer moving up next to him, his throat still moving as he swallowed a few times to clear his mouth. He was watching Aaron, a vacant kind of fucked out smile on his face, lips slipping open, and a distant part of Aaron’s brain realized he was touching himself, fucking his hand, panting Aaron’s name. Gone. Fucking gone. Whatever self-control he’d possessed had cracked as he’d watched Aaron come apart above him. “Kiss me,” he demanded, pushing through the fog and the lazy pull of his limbs, and Spencer lurched forward and crashed their mouths together, kissing wildly, sloppily, and his lips tasted salty and sharp all at once. “My turn.”

“It’s fine, I can’t, I’m almost,” Spencer prattled, shaking his head with his eyes glazed. “Too close.” Aaron responded by slipping from the couch, knowing he’d hardly need _any_ finesse for this and rather glad of it, pushing Spencer down with one hand on his chest. Spencer went, delightedly, only complaining in a slur of incoherent noises when Aaron grabbed his hand and lifted it away from a cock that was almost painfully hard, his hips twitching upwards seeking release.

He took a deep breath, looking up into those shell-shocked eyes, and hunched down on the floor to slide his mouth around that dick. It tasted like Spencer’s lips had; a heady, strange flavour, and Aaron’s brain still wasn’t together enough to even _think_ about the instructions he’d been given, considering how quickly he’d hurtled to an end under a much clever tongue than his. Spencer’s cock, thinner than Aaron’s, hadn’t seemed like it would be a struggle at first, but he almost gagged the first time Spencer whined and wiggled and it bumped the roof of his mouth. Panicked a little, calmed, and remembered to use his tongue. Braced it against the roof of his mouth as he rolled his tongue upward, hand slipping up and fingers trailing uncertainly against the other man’s balls.

It was a hasty, inexperienced blowjob, but it didn’t seem to matter because Spencer cried out, sitting up, tugging Aaron up and off. Not entirely sure he was ready to _fully_ commit, Aaron went, feeling the balls under his hand tighten as he began to come. Neither was ready and Aaron quickly brought his hand up to catch the mess, as Spencer moaned, and grated out as husky _Aaron_ , that would have had him hard if he was physically capable of it at that point. Aaron watched greedily as the pulse began to slow, watching him soften and his hips slow to a stop, eyes shut and chest heaving. He looked _fucked_ , and Aaron had done that. Could do it again. They _would_ do it again, and the idea was electrifying.

“That was amazing,” he breathed and laid down beside him, finding the other man’s slack mouth and kissing him once, again, feeling him jolt and sluggishly begin to kiss back, his eyes flickering open hazily. “I loved that.” He was babbling, his whole body warm and contented, silly. “I love _you_.”

They both froze at the words. Stared at each other. Spencer opened his mouth and Aaron waited for the inevitable babbling rush of scientific information about the chemical processes currently flooding their minds with pair bonding hormones.

“I love you, too,” he said instead, eyes oddly bright, and Aaron kissed him to hide his shock, as the words hummed endlessly around his brain.

_I love you, too_.


	33. December, 2001

Aaron pulled his peacoat on, wrapping a tired blue scarf around his throat and studying his reflection. Despite the scarf’s age, he knew the blue went well with dark hair and dark eyes. He was aiming for _handsome_ tonight, _reasonably attractive_ at the very least. No tricks this time. No fancy cologne, no panic. What was happening was what was always going to happen: what had been ten years in the making.

A knock at the door, a rhythmic brush of knuckles. _Spencer._ Simon must have let him in. “Aaron?” the man murmured, and Aaron turned. Swallowed as he noted the finely tailored coat the other man was wearing, the flush to his cheeks. Something was different about him. Some air that dragged Aaron’s attention inexorably to him, no matter how many others were in the room. Or, maybe he looked how he always had.

Maybe it was Aaron that had changed.

“Hi,” he said, and held out his hand. Pulled the other man close. Held him loosely, nose tucked in the soft folds of his scarf. He pulled back, kissed him once, smiling against his lips. “You know, this is a real date.”

“I know,” Spencer replied quietly. Expression turning soft, he slid his thumb up and along Aaron’s jawline. “Dinner, a movie, whatever the secret you have planned after is…”

“Two secrets after,” Aaron corrected, glancing down at his wallet and the tickets sitting on his desk. _Fellowship of the Ring._ It felt appropriate. “Well, one secret. One… not secret.” His heart thudded heavily, his hands turning clammy and Spencer’s face shifting to concerned.

“What is it?” he asked, cocking his head to the side and studying Aaron, a habit Aaron was pretty sure he didn’t even know he had. “Is something wrong?”

Aaron swallowed his doubts down. He’d thought about making this stupid romantic, over dinner or maybe as they tumbled from the cinema together still flushed with excitement over the visual representation of their shared childhood. But it didn’t have to be grand or romantic, because they weren’t grand or romantic. Just Aaron and Spencer, like they’d always been.

He kissed him, a chaste kiss, and before he could back out of it, murmured, “I want us to be together.”

Spencer’s face smoothed out into a wide shape of delight, mixed with some confusion. “Like, partners? _Boyfriends_?” he asked, hand flicking up as though to shove glasses up his nose, despite wearing contacts, before dropping down to hang by his side. “Aaron Hotchner, are you asking me out?” He chuckled, a deep, warm laugh that hummed in Aaron’s blood and brain and made the next thing even easier.

“Yes,” he said firmly, because, shit, they were practically living in each other’s pockets anyway, and now their relationship had taken a definite swing towards _carnal_ , ‘just friends’ sounded a little silly. “And also.” He paused. Inhaled. Exhaled. Charged on as Spencer opened his mouth to say something, “I want to have sex.” Spencer’s mouth kept opening, gaping for a moment before snapping shut; the very definition of ‘pole-axed’. “With you,” Aaron added, in case that wasn’t clear.

“Actual… penetrative sex?” Spencer squeaked.

Aaron pulled a face. “Well, now you’ve made it sound unpleasant,” he joked, before catching Spencer’s wrist in his fingers, testing the pulse even as he squeezed gently. “Yes, actual sex. For selfish reasons, really. There’s only so many days I can wake up after dreaming of you inside me before it starts getting a bit tedious.”

Spencer blinked. “Oh,” he said, as the puzzle piece of why Aaron kept waking him up painfully early and raring to go clicked into place. “I mean, I help with that. When I’m here. Wait, you dream of me? Really?” His face lit up with some kind of curiosity that was more ‘scientific’ than ‘sexual’, and Aaron cut him off quickly before the conversation veered.

“I mean it, Spence,” he said intently. “I want you. Not just because I’m captivated by the idea of sex _with_ you, but also because I want to be yours. In every way. Body, heart, and soul.”

Spencer studied him slowly, as though trying to work out if he had an ulterior motive. “Okay,” he said finally, nodding as though to agree. “You haven’t, ah, scheduled it in, have you?”

Aaron winced. “I’m not that uptight,” he protested, earning a popped eyebrow from his— _shit_ , from his actual _boyfriend_ now, what—boyfriend. “Okay, so I can be. But I figured… you know I want it, I know you’re okay with it… we just let it happen. I mean, we’ll know when it’s right. I know we will.”

Flushing, Spencer examined his coat cuff, picking invisible lint from the wool. “When you say things like that,” he murmured, “I remember how much you used to believe in magic.”

Aaron didn’t quite know what to say to that.

 

* * *

 

Dinner was wonderful. The movie was… more than either of them had been ready for. And the entire night, Aaron felt like he had a sign floating overhead. Felt like gazes lingered just that little bit longer on them, eyed them just a little bit more. He imagined the sign would say something like, _yes, this is my boyfriend_ , or even, _my boyfriend who I’m going to have sex with,_ or maybe even, _stop fucking staring, we’re not the only men (almost) banging each other in DC._ But maybe that was just his imagination. Spencer, on the other hand, seemed fine. Relaxed, chatty, rambling endlessly about a bevy of facts and trivia about every possible topic under the sun, while Aaron hyper-focused on one.

“So?” Spencer asked, sprawling in the passenger seat of Aaron’s car—Simon had finally sold it to him, citing the fact that Aaron would probably never stop borrowing it if he didn’t—and peering at him. “What’s the ‘big secret’ you have planned?”

Aaron grinned. There was a bag of candy and snacks on the back-seat, some bottled water, some _other_ things that Spencer had chucked into the basket and then walked away whistling when Aaron had blushed. He knew they were for the ‘home’ part of this night, but what Spencer didn’t know was that there was somewhere else they were going first. “It’s a three-hour drive,” he warned him, “in the snow. And I get to pick the music. Still up for it?”

Spencer shrugged. “May as well,” he said with mock disinterest, despite his brain working busily and _visibly_ over how far they could get in that time. Aaron saw it click and for a moment, sighed over the fact he was dating a mathematical genius. “Aaron,” he whispered, sitting bolt upright and staring at Aaron with an expression like he couldn’t think to hope. “Rhosgobel?”

“Rhosgobel,” Aaron confirmed, and turned the ignition. “It’s beautiful in winter.” He wondered how much of it was still standing. If it was gone…

This could turn out to be a disaster.

 

* * *

 

They sat in the car, staring out at the snow covered quarry and the winding road leading to Rhosgobel, their hands tangled together and completely silent with the weight of this moment. Eventually, Aaron slipped from the car. Spencer followed. The world held its breath.

It took them longer to find the narrow path than they’d thought. They’d expected it to be overgrown, and it was, but nowhere near as much as it should have been. The snow underfoot was untouched, but the branches arching over the trail to Rhosgobel formed a walkway designed for much smaller bodies than theirs. Like the trees themselves had been waiting for them to return but hadn’t quite factored in their growth. They looked at it, looked at each other, and then crouched down to shuffle through.

Branches bit and snatched at Aaron’s hair, the snow was wet and soaked through his pants. Spencer edged sideways in front, boots crunching the dry snow and eyes wide with wonder. He looked back, and for a wild moment, Aaron blinked and saw thick glasses, a navy polo shirt, a grin that didn’t know what life was going to fling his way. Then he blinked again and Spencer was Spencer once more, twenty years old and not so innocent anymore.

He vanished. Aaron froze, then inched after. Found himself there. In the clearing.

In Rhosgobel.

“It’s still here,” Spencer breathed, as though talking would ruin the wonder of this place. The same canopy overhead, despite being leafless and thicker than it once had been. More Mirkwood, now, than Rhosgobel. The same crooked fence. The canopy was lower than memory served him, the fence nowhere near as rickety and dangerous. “It’s _all_ still here.” He walked forward slowly, hand brushing the door of the fort that barely came up to his waist, even bent over to avoid catching his hair on a stray twig. The door didn’t creak when he opened it, snow drifting softly from the roof. Oiled. It was oiled.

For a second, as Spencer crouched and peered inside the doorway, Aaron believed once more in magic. Then, Spencer laughed. A real laugh, pleased and wondering, remerging with a carefully painted wooden plank in one hand, dusty where it had fallen with one nail still clinging grimly on. “Not our Rhosgobel anymore,” Spencer said, smiling despite this ominous statement and tilted it towards Aaron so he could read the scrappy writing. _No Boys! We mean it—that means BROTHERS too!!_ “Well now, doesn’t that just make you feel _old_.” He propped it carefully back above the door, sliding the nail into place to hold it.

It didn’t. What he was feeling right now was so much more than just _time_. It was knowing someone else had found this place, somehow… it was knowing Rhosgobel was still a sanctuary.

It was the ridiculous desire to whisper _thank you_ , like the clearing could fucking hear him and know how much it had meant to scared ten-year old boy with nowhere safe to go. Like it had somehow drawn them together.

“Come on,” Spencer said, catching his hand. “We’re trespassers now. Let’s leave this place to its winter slumber.”

Aaron shook his head, searching for the right thing to say. “I feel like we should mark the occasion,” he joked. “Like we did when we founded it.”

Spencer tilted his head. “And this place is forever known as Rhosgobel and the armies of Fear won’t come here. On this date of August, 1992, we call this place ours forevermore,” he murmured, sending a thrill of _I remember_ up Aaron’s spine. “And on this date of December, 2001, we declare it no longer ours. And still the armies of Fear, stay the hell away.” He paused, smiling shyly. “Better?”

Aaron nodded. “Perfect.”

 

* * *

 

Silent when they arrived at Rhosgobel, and silent as they left it for the final time. Aaron could swear, as he walked down the slope that seemed so much smaller than it had when they were kids, that the ghosts of their pasts selves walked with them. There was the tree Spencer fell from once pretending to be Legolas, there was the tires where the spiders had attacked … their heads swivelled around, taking it all in, and Aaron could see Spencer committing the place to some rose-tinted memory where it belonged. Some things were best looked back on with nostalgia to fog the lens, and this was one of them. Rhosgobel would always be theirs in memory alone.

And they walked in silence to the car. It was parked close enough that it was completely concealed from the road, a dark shape in a world of white. Aaron felt completely isolated except for the man by his side as he quietly unlocked the doors and leaned against the icy side, the cold muffled by his heavy gloves.

A bird called, somewhere, the noise shrill. Snow crunched under their shifting boots. Spencer stared at him from across the car roof, and there was something in his gaze that sunk deep into Aaron’s belly. It was piercing gaze, a hungry gaze. Dreamlike, dazed, he stepped away from the driver’s side door and walked around the car to where his boyfriend stood, unable to stop until they were almost touching, almost chest to chest. Both of them wide-eyed with some strange pull that was driving them in the same direction without discussing it. Spencer fumbled for the passenger door, his face pink where it wasn’t white as the winter chilled him. White dusted his coat, his hair, the green scarf he was wearing. Aaron was sure his own outfit was similarly bedecked. The door stood open. They stood frozen.

And then Spencer looked at him, shivering with more than cold. Twitched his hand towards the door. Aaron was warm everywhere, heat pulsing under his skin, and he nodded and sidled past the man to slip onto the passenger seat, the interior of the car bitterly cold. Dazedly, he leaned over and turned the ignition, putting the heater on low as Spencer watched with shadowed eyes from the open door. Leaned back into the chair, Spencer’s knee nudging his side as he leaned on it and used one mittened hand to push him back against the chair, their mouths meeting hungrily. Aaron carded one hand through that snow-flecked hair, pulling the other man tight enough against his face that their teeth clacked, the other hand reclining the seat.

“We can drive home,” Spencer panted when they broke for air, cold air still rushing from the outside. “We don’t need to…” He trailed off with a moan as Aaron reached between his legs, coaxing him forward onto his hand, head almost knocking the roof as he swayed into the smooth stroke of Aaron’s fingers across the front of his pants.

“No more waiting,” slipped from Aaron’s mouth without him thinking it through, still warm, still throbbing. Achingly hard and had been so since halfway down the quarry when Spencer had turned and looked at him with eyes that Aaron could only describe as fuckable. And Spencer’s face slipped into the same kind of dreamlike desire, eyes flickering around as some part of his brain that was still functioning considered the logistics. They weren’t going to be caught. In winter, absolutely no one came out here. Aaron threw his coat into the back, catching Spencer’s as he stripped it quickly and sent it back to join his. Pants followed and Spencer slid into the car in a shivering rush, dropping his boots onto the driver’s seat. The door clacked shut and they pressed together, chest to chest and shaking as the heater kicked in, still in their boxers and shirts, Spencer’s mouth pressed to Aaron’s neck where he mouthed hungrily at the over-warm skin. He was straddled awkwardly over Aaron, somewhat more limber in the cramped space, and Aaron couldn’t focus while the position offered such a tantalizing view down his body to the tented shape pressing against Aaron’s thigh.

The cold lingered and Aaron reached down, caressing that shape, wrapping his fingers around it and stroking gently as Spencer made a delightful _ohhh_ noise and swayed into the touch, his eyes focused on nothing and a smile tracing his mouth. Slow. A slow, ease into seduction as Aaron coaxed and coaxed until his own dick was aching and Spencer’s boxers were damp under his palm. He arched up, shifting his hand out the way. Both of them watched as they rubbed deliciously together, Spencer readjusting his position on the seat so his leg didn’t cramp.

“Just follow my lead,” he murmured, when the temperature warmed enough that colour returned to their bodies, “Let me be in control,” and then they said nothing at all. Shopping bags in the backseat offered up lube and condoms that Spencer tucked into the centre console, the car silent except for the rustle of the plastic. He reached down, tapped at Aaron’s hip in a silent _lift_ , and slid his boxers down. Aaron unbuttoned his shirt, twisting under his weight to lob it into the back, before turning back and undoing Spencer’s as the other man wriggled out of his boxers, his hand cupped around his cock.

_Slow_ was implicit in the gentle rocking press of their bodies together, as Spencer settled firmer onto his lap and pulled him up until they were pressed together, hot, heavy weights trapped between them in a sticky slide of bodies, doing nothing but kissing endlessly, their hands roaming each other, their hips beating a tattoo of longing against each other. Silent but for the sounds they made as they moved together. A rasp of skin. Husky breathing. The chair creaking slightly under them. Aaron leaned back and reached between them at one point, wrapping his hand around both of them and drawing them together. Spencer made a low noise that could have been a groan, or just as likely Aaron’s name, and it drove him mad. His hips sped up, his hand shifting against them as his palm grew slicker from both their mounting arousals.

Spencer grabbed his wrist gently, bringing his hand closer to his mouth, bringing the knuckle to brush against his mouth. Aaron let his head loll back against the backrest to ease his neck, staring in wonder at the profile of this man who was _his_ outlined against the foggy windshield. Spencer shifted, stretching out next to him like a cat, his own legs sore from the confined position. Still holding Aaron’s hand, he squeezed it as they kissed until they were both light-headed, until the kisses changed and became darker, hungrier, and he slid up in a smooth move to retake his straddled position across him. Hair hanging in his face as he bent forward over Aaron’s body, he fiddled with the lube, using liberal amounts on his own hand. Aaron watched, frozen and fascinated and slightly disappointed. Almost wanted to be the one to make the first move that would set them firmly on the path of, _this is happening. You’re about to fuck your boyfriend in the front seat of your car. You’re about to fuck a man until he comes, until you come. You’re going to **like** fucking this man._

Spencer wrapped his fingers around Aaron’s, dark eyes locked on his face and reading his expression. Using his fingers to coat Aaron’s with the warm, tacky lube, to guide them down, arching up to press Aaron’s hand between his legs. Nodded once, _permission._

Aaron stared as he fumbled slightly before sliding those fingers along Spencer’s ass, finding what he was looking for. Pausing for a moment, eyes wide and breathing harsh, and didn’t break eye-contact as he pressed them inside. Resistance for a moment and then he was in, moving, and he watched it happen on Spencer’s face. Watched his eyes shutter closed, his mouth slipping open into a half o of something raw, his head tipping back like his muscles had taken that heartbeat off. He made a noise. Just a simple noise. A simple noise that Aaron was never going to be able to remember again without immediately getting hard. A breathy, hitched kind of exhale, folding smoothly into a trailing _ah,_ as though some great relief had come to him in that moment. Aaron pushed his fingers in to the knuckle, slowly, and Spencer lowered his hips and bowed his head forward and panted in tune with the shift of muscles in Aaron’s arm.

What followed was a slow undoing of the man, and Aaron watched it all. Nervous still, he was liberal with the lube, working his boyfriend open as the man twitched with barely restrained pleasure over-top of him. And Aaron was painfully hard the whole time, even without the occasional stroke of a warm, dry palm over his dick as Spencer glanced down and seem to note it with a hungry kind of delayed excitement.

They had to shift positions twice to avoid cramping, and Aaron knew they’d probably passed the point of return when Spencer had dropped his hand almost casually and began an almost sinfully slow rock of his hips into his own fist, spreading the pre-come that was liberally coating the tip down the shaft, his expression already completely fucked out and alien. Aaron was giddy with the power. Just the _idea_ that he was going to do this was getting Spencer off harder than anything else his fingers could do, and a vacant part of his mind wondered if he could one day test this theory just by pressing his lips against his boyfriend’s ear and whispering about every filthy thing he’d ever dreamed of doing to him, getting him off without even touching his dick. Shaken from his revere by the loud crinkle of a packet being opened by deft fingers, Spencer paused with the condom held gently in two fingers, his eyes a silent question. _Ready?_

He was going to have to be. There was only so long either of them could keep this up without losing it; the cramped space wasn’t being kind to lanky muscles, and Aaron felt like he’d been waiting a lifetime for this moment. He should probably be concerned about that possessiveness, the little voice in his mind that purred with pleasure at the idea that this would cement the bond they had, that it made damn well sure that the only body Spencer would ever want was his. Awkward and fumbling he might be, but there was something between them, some snapping tension that made looking away impossible and the idea of _anyone_ else somehow aversive.

He nodded.

Spencer smiled, his expression wicked, and slipped down in an insanely smooth and swift movement that almost had Aaron lurching up out of his chair in surprise. Those two fingers slipped the condom over the head of his dick, and Spencer’s mouth followed in a _ridiculously_ hot surge of warmth and pressure as he used his tongue to roll the prophylactic on completely, before bobbing off with a soft _pa_ noise of his lips leaving skin. Aaron tried to say something, to tease him, but instead choked on his words.

“Slow,” whispered Spencer, his voice odd in the weird, silent world they’d created in the fog-shrouded interior of the car, and moved back up and into position, their mouths crashing together. Kissing like they never had before; Spencer actually moaning into his mouth with the force of everything they were trying to say. Aaron tried to break away, to help, but then there was a hot weight on him, suddenly around him, tight, _too tight oh god oh god_ and Spencer’s soft moan became a harsh, choked groan from deep within his chest. Aaron dropped back, every muscle cording to resist the urge to _buck_ into that gorgeous pressure as Spencer sunk slowly down onto him, gazes locked on each other.

Aaron whimpered. His hips bumped up, earning a gasp that set every nerve to chanting _do it again_. He couldn’t. Couldn’t not. Did it again, involuntarily, needing to, and Spencer moved with it with a barked kind of exhale. He felt like every part of his mind had suddenly snap-focused on his dick, helplessly lost to that primal carnal voice that burned in his chest and urged him to move anything, everything, just _fuck_.

“Your face right now,” Spencer panted, using his hand to brace himself against Aaron’s chest. “So gorgeous. So fucking gorgeous. You look _hungry_.” Aaron shook his head slowly, unable to formulate words, just squeezing out a shifting whine and pushing up in one slow, agonising thrust that Spencer pushed back down against, both of them going very slow and wide-eyed as he sunk in deeper, deeper. Settled and sagged against Aaron’s body, both of them panting. “Talk to me,” Spencer gritted out, his head dropping against Aaron’s sweaty shoulder. Aaron shook. “Tell me you’re okay.”

Aaron husked out something that might have been an affirmative, twitching his hips just to see what would happen. His body buzzed with a thrill as Spencer twitched with them, the movement turning his eyes glazed and his cock actually jolting as though Aaron had done something absolutely right. “What was that?” Aaron managed, the words stupidly deep, and did it again. This time, Spencer’s hand snapped down to his cock, fingers wrapping around the base and pressing hard, wincing slightly.

“Do that again and it’s game over,” he wheezed. “Also, what the fuck. It took me _ages_ to work out where the, _ah_.” Aaron had done it again and Spencer dropped bonelessly forward, shuddering against him. Barely hanging on. He eased back, let the shuddering stop, let some semblance of focus return to his boyfriend’s glazed eyes. He didn’t speak again though, just kissed any part of Aaron he could reach, his cock leaving a pool of warm wetness across Aaron’s stomach. Aaron braced a wide hand on the base of Spencer’s spine, easing him up as he slid out almost all the way. Controlled the slim hips with just the suggestion of pressure, Spencer turning completely pliable under his control. It was heady. Powerful. He paused, doing nothing but watching his partner breathe shallowly, and then guided him back down onto him, pushing back inside. And again, quicker this time. Setting a steady, stilted rhythm, and Spencer’s eyes flickered shut, his fingers biting down tight enough to bruise on Aaron’s shoulders, and Aaron used his other hand to wrap around the dick bobbing between them, using Spencer’s momentum to stroke his fist tightly over it. Spencer bucked, almost painfully, his eyes snapping open.

“Wha—what are you doing?” he stammered, eyes white-ringed and desperate, his movements turning jerky and uncoordinated. “Aaron, Aaron, _Aaron_.”

Aaron found his words. The words he was training to use in a courtroom, or apparently a bedroom, and he rolled his hips up _hard_ and purred in a voice only describable as velvet, “Making you come so I can fuck you as you do.” Spencer’s eyes turned comically wide, mouth an off-kilter _O._ Aaron tried to remember what he’d done the first time to do it again, not quite managing it, but it didn’t really matter because Spencer was mewling his name, rocking forward. Aaron managed to scramble up, dragging the other man with him. An awkward as fuck procedure and he smacked his head on the roof, but he wrapped his arms around the slim, shaking body against him. Impossible to thrust properly like this, the angle completely wrong, but it didn’t matter because in a desperate bid not to lose the moment, he nipped at Spencer’s ear and growled, “Come for me,” in a voice that _commanded_ it.

And Spencer did. Pulsing, shaking, until he turned limp and wrung out, and Aaron felt the hot throb of him against him, realized _he’d done this_ , _you did this, you fucked him until he couldn’t even talk_. With a savage rush, he completely gave into that earlier, senseless need to thrust into the tight body around him, snapping his hips up in an uneven, fucking lost kind of rhythm, his mouth moving and failing to form words. Just senseless noises, senseless want, and he was so far gone he didn’t even realize he was coming until Spencer stirred with a sleepy groan of delight and whispered, “Oh, feel _you_. Oh, love, oh, _love_ …” and continuing that soft murmuring adoration until the pulsing stopped and the need slowed and Aaron lay senseless under him.

Silence fell again. Spencer wriggled off before the condom lost all pretence at protection as Aaron softened, and sprawled across him like a discarded, deeply breathing dishcloth. All Aaron could smell was sweat and sex, and he sleepily thought to himself that it was going to be a miracle if they got the whole three-hour drive home without that scent turning them on again, reminding them of what they could do to each other.

Aaron brushed his lips against that sweaty hair, earning a contented mumble from the other man, and then did it again. “I love you,” he said, his voice grating in the winter quiet, “and I’m going to need you to remember that when I remind you in a couple of minutes that we need to start heading home.”

Hazel eyes darted up to study him. “Do you regret this?” Spencer asked, his focused voice at sharp odds with his still glazed expression. “Doing this here?”

Aaron used the back of his hand to clear the side window, looking out at the dark night to the upward sweep that led to Rhosgobel. “No,” he said finally, and meant it. It might have been uncomfortable, they were both going to be sore in the morning, but… “It feels right. I mean…” He paused and sucked in a breath, feeling Spencer tense. “This is where I fell in love with you after all.”

Shocked silence. “You were ten.”

And Aaron smiled, turning to face Spencer as he scuttled into the backseat, using his boxers to clean up as much as he could and pulling his pants on with one leg gawkily hanging in the air. “And?” he murmured, and knew every word was true. Some things he believed in completely, and this was one of them.


	34. May, 2002

Aaron wasn’t drunk, but he was having to double-check to make sure.

“You’re seeing this too, right?” he asked the grinning Simon, who _was_ drunk, and decidedly delighted about the two men belting out _Breakfast at Tiffany’s_ at the karaoke stand. “I’m not hallucinating?”

“Oh, to have a camera,” Simon responded giddily, joining in on the chorus.

“Aw, Ethan’s really good,” Kate said, leaning forward to stare. “Um, but… Spencer seems a little nervous.” It was true. Spencer appeared to be attempting to slip behind Ethan as his friend held him firm with one arm around his shoulder. Aaron could _see_ his mouth moving, but there was decidedly only one voice informing the thin crowd that _it’s plain to see we're over_.

A glass scraped on the table as Simon shoved it over to it. “I think your boyfriend requires rescuing,” he said, still grinning, right as Ethan attempted to swing Spencer into a dance that was _definitely_ much more coordinated in his head. “Get up there, O’ Knight.”

“Oh boy,” Aaron said, draining the glass and standing. This was _not_ going to be a story he told Sean. Spencer looked relieved as he stepped up to them, tugging away from Ethan’s disappointed grip. Aaron grinned, slinging his arm around his other shoulder and joining in, the horrified Spencer pinned between them as they sang, Simon and Kate shouting the lyrics back from the audience. After a beat, even Spencer gave in after a muttered _why would you do this to me, I thought you loved me,_ and started singing along to _Don’t Dream It’s Over_ , his hand sneaking into Aaron’s behind the safe screen of their hips on the _we know they won’t win_.

He wasn’t _terrible_.

 

* * *

 

There was a sleepy, snuggly genius curled up against him, and Aaron was panicking. “I’m going to fail my exams,” he told that sleepy genius, who mumbled something that could have been, _no you’re not_ , and just kept snoozing. “I’m going to get kicked out of college, I’m going to be a complete failure, I’m going to—”

Spencer’s eyes slid open. “Aaron,” he said firmly. “You’re fine. Give me that book, I’ll quiz you. Studies have shown that practise tests are far more effective than rote memorization when it comes to recalling information under exam conditions.” He fumbled for the book, tongue flicking over the corner of his mouth as he woke up properly.

“You worked all night,” Aaron protested, lifting the book away. “You’re working again tonight, I know, Elle told me you’re pulling a double shift to make up for Ethan having to play at Jeremy’s. You’re working _bar_. You need to sleep.”

Sounding affronted, Spencer grumbled, “What about that combination indicates that I need _more_ sleep than usual?”

“You’re clumsy when you’re sleepy.” As though to illustrate Aaron’s point, Spencer lunged for the book and instead elbowed himself on the nose with a startled whine.

“I’m perpetually clumsy,” he complained, rubbing his nose and glaring at the offending elbow. “Let me _help_.”

Aaron put the book aside with a glance to the black-out blinds, rolling on the mattress to face his boyfriend. He was really going to have to talk to the man about buying a bed. _Surely_ working the hours he did, he was making enough that sleeping on the floor was a little unnecessary. Not that that money seemed to translate into anything other than books, seeing as the cupboards were always bare until Ethan filled them, and his clothes were still on the shabby side of tattered. If it wasn’t for Aaron’s utter determination to abide by his promise to respect the other man’s privacy, they’d be having some serious discussions about budgeting. That’s what he told himself anyway, to stave off the dark suspicions about all the places a disposable income _could_ go.

“You know what, it’s time for a break anyway,” he declared, lobbing the book into a corner. It skidded on the carpet, thunking against the wall with a hollow impact sound that they both winced at as someone downstairs swore. “See, look. Naptime. We’re going to nap.”

Spencer flopped back down, scowling. “It’s ten a.m.,” he protested. “You _just_ woke up.”

“And you haven’t slept at all yet,” Aaron said, rolling to lean over the other man and slotting their noses together, staring at him. Spence wasn’t the only one who could be really disconcerting if need be. “And this way I get to watch you sleep. _Intently._ ”

Spencer didn’t look the least bit worried about this. “Oooh,” he said, brightening, “can you see if you can track my REM stages by the minute movements of my eyelids? I’m curious about how they—”

Aaron huffed and shut him up by kissing him, pulling a face at their stale breath and then ignoring them anyway. “New plan,” he mumbled sliding a leg over and slipping into place as easily as if the one place he was absolutely certain of belonging was gently crushing the man under him. With love. And sex. Lots of both. “I have a better idea about how to get you to sleep.”

“Aw,” Spencer said, mouth twisting into what was _almost_ a pout, “but Aaron, I’m _tired_.” It would never cease to amaze Aaron that Spencer would shove aside his exhaustion to read endless laws with him in a heartbeat, but he had to be coaxed into sex.

“I didn’t say you had to be energetic,” he replied pertly, and made his way down the other man’s torso, counting ribs as he went and silently planning a shopping trip. “Now, close your eyes. You better be asleep by the end of this.”

“Doubt it,” Spencer muttered, twitching as Aaron’s mouth reached his hip. “You have terrible ideas.” But it worked. A slow, steady undoing of the other man that ended with a soft moan and exhausted limbs only slightly twitching under him, Spencer’s eyes lidded and almost shut. Aaron swallowed the musky taste down, grinned at the sated, limp form of his deeply sleeping boyfriend, and then padded away to the shower and more studying on the couch until he woke up. It was an odd kind of life, but he wouldn’t trade it.

 

* * *

 

“Why is it that every time one of us even _remotely_ achieves something, you drag us out to break the law?” Aaron complained, without really meaning it, slouched comfortably in one of Velvet Underground’s roomy booths with his shoulder tipped against Kate’s and holding him up. “You’re supposed to be the adult.”

Simon, busily attempting to see how many straws he could drink through at once, looked offended. “I have never professed to being an adult!” he declared, shoving seven in his mouth at once and sucking deeply. Aaron watched as the cocktail made a half-hearted attempt to climb the clear straws, his friend’s face reddening with the effort. “These straws are broken. Bring me more!”

“Elle!” shrieked Kate suddenly, lurching up. Without her against his back, Aaron slid down with a yelp, finding himself sprawled on the booth staring straight up into Elle’s cocked eyebrow.

“Evening, lads,” she said briskly, leaning over and frowning down at Aaron. “Making the human race proud, I see? I should card the lot of you urchins and send you home with… oh look, never mind, Mama Simon is here. Also being an urchin.”

“You should not,” Simon said, leaning his chin on the straws. “I am an adult. An adulty adult allowed to do adulty things like adult alcohol.”

“As opposed to minor alcohol,” Aaron explained. “Like… ginger beer. And that beet juice stuff that tastes boozy.” He paused. “I thought you weren’t an adult?”

“He’s a liar,” Simon said, beaming. “I’m totally adult. And you’re frowning. We’re being good! Aaron’s the one making a mess.”

Elle looked down at Aaron, who looked at the bottom of the table. “There’s gum under here,” he informed her, followed by, “I only spilled one drink, and I cleaned it up. I swear.”

She rolled her eyes. “Good god,” she muttered, leaning her tray on the back of the seat. Even drunk, Aaron noted the way her eyes skittered around the room, her mouth tight. She was on edge, jumpy. Dark shadows under her eyes showed even through her makeup. “I don’t understand how Spencer is as normal as he is with you lot around.”

Hey. That was.

Hey.

“You think _Spencer_ is the normal one?” Aaron said, snapping upright just in time to see Simon seeing how many cocktail umbrellas he could balance in the straws and overturning his glass with a soft _oopsie._ Softening his voice, confident she could hear him even over the throb of the music, he murmured, “Are you okay?”

She jolted, turning that see-right-through-people gaze onto him. “Yes,” she snapped, too fast, and the warm drunk delight of celebrating surviving another year of college vanished to be replaced with the familiar something-awful cold sober feeling. “You guys aren’t hanging around all night, are you? Don’t you have less creepy places to be than hovering around Spencer’s workplace?”

“Oh, honey,” Simon said with a lecherous wink that was completely odd on his face, “we’re not here for Spencer. I find myself _captivated_ with the way you swing that… tray. Ow!”

She swung it alright, knocking him gently over the back of the head. “Don’t be a _cabron_ ,” she scolded. “It doesn’t suit you, sweet-boy.” She walked away with one last disgusted glance at them.

“She called me sweet-boy,” Simon sighed, nipping at the straws. “I think she _likes_ me. What a gal.”

“She also called you a douchebag in Spanish,” Kate said, standing to make her way to the bar, and calling back over her shoulder, “Don’t do it. She eats men for breakfast. She’ll _kill_ you.”

“But what a glorious way to die,” Simon breathed. Aaron groaned at the expression on his face. “Hey, come on, not all of us can swing a relationship with our childhood sweethearts. Some of us prefer a love life more ‘backroom of seedy video rental’ rather than ‘TV special’.”

“I’ve never seen a TV special that adequately captures Spencer,” Aaron said drily, craning his neck to watch Elle slip around the edge of the crowded room, her eyes darting everywhere. Watching the… exits.

Simon was still going. “… you know, like My Girl, without the bees…” Elle shifted in place, her hand shifting up to her ear as though to scratch it. Lingered in place. “… of course, in this analogy, you’re a girl and Spencer is Macaulay Calkin…” Elle looked over at him, caught his eye, and frowned. Rolled her eyes at him, shoulders stiffened. She looked tense. She looked like Aaron when he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. She peered away, eyes tracking three men in business suits as they crossed the floor and disappeared past a bouncer up the roped off VIP staircase. Aaron watched them as well, tipping his head back to peer up at the balcony ringed by glass tilted at just the right angle to obscure the other side from those below. “… also, I’m moving to Cuba and leaving you the apartment. I expect you to continue my rigorous schedule of two a.m. star jumps to annoy Kathy downstairs until I return.”

“Wait, what?” Aaron blurted out, spinning to stare at his friend. Simon had finally shoved aside the drink, watching Aaron with the kind of gaze that belonged on a man who’d consumed _far_ less highballs that what he had. “You’re leaving?”

“No, you’re ignoring me,” Simon complained, and then looked up as well. His fingers, rapping along with the beat, paused. “You know,” he said quietly, “I enquired about those rooms. Family connections and all, figured it might get me a look in.”

Aaron froze. “You hate your family,” he pointed out. “And you hate using their name to get you places.”

Simon inched closer, glancing over his shoulder. Elle wasn’t the only twitchy one in the room anymore, he looked positively edgy. The tension was working on Aaron too, his hands clenching in his lap as he fought back a nervous look around the room of dancing young adults. “Yeah, I do,” Simon said, voice low and hard to hear, “but I hate my friends getting into shit they can’t handle more.”

“If you’re talking about Elle again,” Aaron said, relaxing. It was just another Simon-scheme to find himself ‘the one’. “I can assure you, she can handle probably anything they—”

“It’s two grand to get through that door, Aaron,” Simon said bluntly. Aaron blinked. Was that… normal? “That’s _just_ to get through the door. I asked Rob. He said there’s rooms behind rooms, and each one is a steeper price. Want to bet what happens behind those doors? I wouldn’t. But I bet it brings in a pretty penny indeed if that’s the asking price.”

Aaron’s head whirled. He couldn’t even… _fathom_ having that much money, let alone using it to, what? Have a little more privacy in an, admittedly nice, nightclub on the seedy edge of town?

But he wasn’t naïve. There was _no_ way all that was going on back there was dancing.

“This affects us how?” he snapped, already knowing where Simon was slowly leading the conversation, letting Aaron make the connections himself. And he was, despite not _wanting_ to. “Ethan and Elle work bar, they’ve got nothing to do with—”

And Simon leaned back in his chair, swallowing. Aaron trailed off. That much money… drugs, for sure. Gambling, definitely. An IRS field day. Taxation nightmare.

Unless they had someone cleaning up after them.

“Fuck,” he hissed, pressing his hand against his mouth to hold back a growl of frustration as his head began to throb. “That _idiot_.”

“I don’t know about you,” Simon said, looking up again, “but if I was moving that much dirty money, I wouldn’t be saying no to a math genius rocking up on my doorstep, no matter how bad his dress sense is. Last year? When he was vanishing? That was about end of business year… bad time to be running illegal high-stakes gambling rooms. And I went to his college last week, on a trip for my supervisor. He teaches there, Aaron. On the side of his doctorate research, he lectures. Not enough to be loaded but enough that he shouldn’t be _this_ broke… unless someone’s tapping his pay-check. And if it’s not drugs…” His eyes skipped up to that ominous glass.

“Fuck,” Aaron said again, and dropped his head to the table.

“Fuck, indeed,” Simon agreed.

 

* * *

 

In retrospect, he probably should have called out her name or something. One second he was walking up behind her as she unlocked her car door, glancing around the lit parking lot for anyone listening in and opening his mouth to speak, the next he was on his ass with a boot on his chest and her lipstick knife pressed against a carotid.

“That’s illegal,” he coughed, feeling the knife shift away as his throat moved, Elle’s mouth thinning. “No person shall carry within the District of Columbia either openly or concealed on or about their person, a pistol, or any deadly or dangerous weapon capable of being so concealed.”

“Jesus, Aaron,” she snapped, “such a fucking lawyer.” She vanished, letting his wheeze his way upright, folding her arms and leaning back against the open car. “You creep up on people in the middle of the night often?”

He thought of Spencer, Ethan, and laughed darkly. “Oddly, yes. It’s become a common enough occurrence. Good way to meet people, I find.”

“Good way to get your dick shot off,” she replied rapidly. The knife was gone, sequestered on her person somewhere, and he eyed her uniform cautiously.

“You carrying?” he asked, edging back. Shit, he trusted Elle. But there was trusting Elle and then there was _trusting_ Elle.

“That would be illegal,” she responded pertly, looking around as well. Still edgy. He noted where she’d parked. Dead centre, just outside of a ring of light thrown down by a streetlamp. Complete view of her surroundings, no cover for anyone waiting nearby. The light would blind people approaching her from the open alley, while giving her the option to make it back to the club. Two of the five cameras around the area converged on the spot. And yet, he’d still gotten close enough to startle her. “What do you want?”

“Why are you here?” He charged forward with the conversation, feeling unsteady.

Her eyebrows lifted. “You wanna narrow that down for me?” she mocked. “Here as in this parking lot, this city, this… earth?”

“Working, here.” He gestured back at the nightclub behind them. “This isn’t where someone like you picks up a buck. You’re too… no bullshit. Educated.”

“Educated, like your boy Spencer? That kid is plenty smart, and he works here. And I don’t know if you’ve met Ethan, but his bullshit tolerance is pretty…” She made a hand shape indicting _zero_ with a smirk. “Unless you’re here on some misguided attempt at ‘wing-manning’ for Simon…”

“I think people like you become cops, not bartenders,” Aaron said in a soft voice that wouldn’t carry as it began to click into place. “You’re trained. Why do you think I didn’t call our earlier? You saw me coming. I’m twice your size and you put me on my ass to teach me a lesson. A lesson, and a little bit because you don’t trust men as much as you do women and you’re still unsure of my intentions. You’ve parked in the spot I would have picked, if I was paranoid of the people around me and expecting an attack from any quarter. You look for exits in every room you enter. You judge people immediately—”

“Alright, alright, stop before you get to detailing what I like in bed,” she said with a huff. “You, Hotchner, are _wasted_ as a lawyer. What the fuck was that? I didn’t realize just because you and Spencer are cuddling now meant you’re becoming him by osmosis.”

Aaron ignored that. “Am I correct?” he asked, probably unwisely.

Brown eyes studied him. “Tell him to quit this place,” she said suddenly, standing upright with her shoulders braced. “I’ve tried. For a smart kid, he’s damn stupid.”

“Why would I tell him to quit?” Aaron kept his voice even, not a trace of how his heartbeat had started racing at the soft order showing in his tone. He just kept staring her down, letting her know he wasn’t going to back away. If Spencer was in _danger_ , he would know about it by the end of this night.

“You know I’m not going to tell you that,” Elle responded. “You know I can’t. I’m already stepping over a damn line for that idiot in there just by warning you. Get him out now, before shit starts flying.” Her eyes ticked up past him, watching over his shoulder. “Speak of the devil.”

“Elle? Aaron?” called a voice. Spencer, finished for the night. Aaron had been waiting for him when he’d seen Elle walking to her car. Aaron went to ask _how_ before he lost the chance, hearing footsteps thumping towards them, but fumbled the words.

“Hey,” Spencer said, grinning stupidly as he skidded up. “I’m done. What’s up?”

In Aaron’s pocket, his cell rang shrilly. They all looked down at it. He tugged it out, shooting Elle a look that said _this isn’t over_ and glanced at the screen. His racing heartbeat skipped and stalled. Whatever he was feeling, his mind blanking, it showed on his face because Spencer’s expression turned scared, and Elle stepped forward. Aaron answered the phone without thinking.

The four a.m. phone call. Just as ominous as the knock at the door, the squad car pulling up outside. Everyone feared this call.

_Don’t be Sean. Don’t be Sean._

His voice cracked, choked, but he forced it out anyway. “Hey,” he said, hearing the breathing on the other end hitch. “Mom? What’s wrong?”

_Please don’t be Sean._


	35. June, 2002

“I’m coming with you.” Spencer watched from his bed as Aaron tried on the suit he’d bought for two occasions only. Everyone needed one: the suit for weddings… and funerals. “Don’t push me away when you need me.”

“I’m fine,” Aaron protested, because he _was_ fine. “But…” He paused, his stomach twisting with the familiar whirl of confused emotions that had sunk in it four days ago when his mom had called in the middle of the night to tell him his father was dead. “I’d… really like if you came with me. I mean… I’d appreciate that, Spence.”

Spence nodded seriously, standing and stepped over to adjust the suit jacket, standing closer than what he technically needed to be to do the job. “You need to shave,” he murmured, brushing their lips together, and Aaron tried not to look too desperate for the touch as he leaned into the firm body pressing against him, his breath catching. “And probably get a haircut.” He tweaked Aaron’s hair, mouth twitching sadly.

“You’re one to talk,” Aaron said with a huff. “Look at your hair.” His face _was_ stubbly though. He should deal with that before… before facing his mom. Facing his family.

Facing his dad, or the body that used to be him.

“Seriously, Aaron, this must be confusing for you,” Spencer continued, fingers trailing curiously though his long hair and leaning around Aaron to peer in the mirror. “Despite your father’s… temperament… he was still your father. You’re still going to grieve. Not just for him being dead, but for what you could have had with him if things were different, for the loss of any hope of resolution or absolution… for your mother’s grief, at least. And Sean’s.”

“Would you grieve your father if he died?” Aaron asked, probably cruelly, but he _did_ want to know.

“Yes,” Spencer answered bluntly. “Absolutely.”

Aaron was silent for a moment. “You know, you’re not coming as my friend,” he said suddenly, because shit, if this was the only time he saw his family until the next funeral, he was doing this right. Spencer looked hurt, for a heartbeat. “If you’re coming, you’re coming as my partner. If… if you’re comfortable with that.”

Spencer eyed him, his mind visibly ticking over. “I’m from Vegas, Aaron,” he said finally. “No one would bat an eye at this there. But Manassas, Virginia? Are you sure?”

Aaron had never been surer. He slid his jacket from his shoulders and hung it carefully before answering, unbuttoning his shirt. “Completely,” he said. Behind him as he faced the mirror one last time, he heard Spencer’s cell trill. “You should go home and grab some stuff. We have to pick Sean up from the airport at five a.m., before driving to Mom’s. It’d be easier if you sleep here.”

“Okay,” Spencer said, sounding distracted. Aaron glanced at him, saw him frowning at his phone. “I have to run some errands beforehand. Ethan wants me to pick up a package for him, and Elle wants to meet up to pick up our pay-checks together. At least then I can chip in if we end up staying at a hotel instead of driving home late.” He looked up and smiled. “Maybe even get a haircut.”

Aaron smiled back, pushing through the numb moroseness settling on his shoulders. _Look on the bright side_ , he reminded himself. _A whole day and a bit with Spencer, you get to see your brother, you get to see Mom…_ yeah. It would be fine. “Alright,” he said, aware that _any_ errand involving Ethan would probably run hours over the time Spencer expected it to. Which meant he’d be walking in, late, and then he’d be tired tomorrow. Aaron would be driving then, since Sean had lost his license the month before. “Early bed for me then. You’ll take my apartment key and let yourself in?”

“Sure,” Spencer agreed, leaning over his shoulder and brushing his lips against his cheek. “I won’t wake you when I get home, okay? See you tomorrow morning. Love you.”

“Love you too,” Aaron called after him, and headed to the bathroom to shave.

 

* * *

 

His cell screamed in his ear as the alarm shuddered him awake, groggy eyed and dry mouthed. Aaron _gahed_ , rolling over and fumbling for the snooze button, head thumping once to remind him how damn early it was. He blinked in the pre-dawn gloom, his room filled with shapeless shadows, and looked beside him to the empty bed. And stared. “Huh,” he said, picking his cell up and staring at it blankly. _3:32a.m._ “Huh,” he said again, and clicked the _inbox_ option, scrolling through his received texts. Two from Sean telling him he was getting on the plane, one from Simon rambling about asparagus, one from Spencer… _Got held up. I’ll be there before you leave, promise. Love you S.R._

He shrugged and got up to shower the sleep from his brain, snapping awake properly to find the water drumming warmly against his back. Much more awake, he turned the water off, grabbed his towel, and wandered through the apartment to peer at the key hook by the door. They’d found it was the easiest way to tell who was home at any one point, by whose keys were present and whose weren’t. Simon’s and Kate’s both hung there… his were gone.

He padded back to his bedroom, suddenly remembering where he was going today and why, and tapped out a shaky message before sinking to his bed with his elbows on his knees, shivering despite how warm it was. Teeth chattering slightly, he had to keep chanting in his head _he’s not there, you’re not going to him._

**To Spencer: Where r u? We have to go soon. Let me no, Ill pick u up omw**

He wasn’t going to him. Not a him that could hurt him anymore, not anymore. Not ever again. But he was going where it had happened. The rooms that echoed with fear and shadows. The table corner he’d fallen one day and fractured his cheekbone after a rough shove. The kitchen with the dings on the wall where bottles would strike perilously close to his back as he fled them. The room that had been Sean’s, when the nightmare was still his, where Aaron would crouch outside and listen to the sound of belt on skin while his brother sobbed. Where he’d creep in after his father was gone and curl up in the bed with his brother, because he didn’t know what else to do except be there. Sean had never kicked him out, not even when the nightmares got so bad that Aaron had started messing up the bed.

He’d helped him hide it.

Aaron snapped his eyes shut and felt sick. Sick and scared and on the verge of worthless panic, like he was ten and useless again instead of pushing twenty-one and well-capable of defending himself. On the verge of being late; still naked with water dripping from his clammy skin. And his cell was silent, the one time he needed a lifeline.

**To Spencer: R u ok??? Where r u??**

He dressed in a daze. That was simple. Buttons, tie, shoes, hair. Dressed in silence. His cell beeped and he lunged for it, belting his knee on the corner of the bedframe with a hushed _fuck_.

**From Sean: Yo, bro. Bout 30m frm landing. How u feelin?**

He didn’t respond, because any answer would be a lie. Just collected his stuff and walked out into the kitchen, finding Simon hovering over a coffee, the shadows under his eyes attesting that he hadn’t gone to bed yet.

“You okay?” Simon asked, nudging a mug towards him that he probably didn’t have time to drink but _really_ needed. Aaron took it gratefully, as well as a slice of buttered toast from his housemate’s plate. “You look like crap.”

Aaron ignored that. “Have you seen Spencer?” he asked, and winced at the huskiness to his voice. “He’s… he’s supposed to come with me. But he didn’t come home last night.” They were both thinking of the last time he’d done this, just vanished without a trace. “He didn’t say anything about working…”

Simon frowned. “Not a peep from him,” he said, his expression oddly blank. “Aaron… he’s done this before. You don’t think…”

Shaking his head, Aaron put the toast down before his stomach sent it back up. “No,” he muttered, and closed his eyes. He had to go. _They_ had to go. He had to… alone. Anger replaced the tired misery.

Anger was better.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Simon asked quietly, his voice still carrying loudly in the sleepy apartment. “You shouldn’t do this alone.” Simon didn’t know. Couldn’t know. Only Spencer knew. Not even Sean knew like Spencer did…

And he’d still left him to do it alone.

“No,” Aaron said bitterly, standing and shoving his hand in his pocket to check that his wallet and car keys and stupid fucking useless phone were all in there. “Just… contact me if he shows up. Cya.”

“Good luck,” Simon called after, but Aaron couldn’t answer through the burning fury building.

 

* * *

 

Sean was uncharacteristically quiet as they drove into the weak yellow dawn. Summer was drawing slowly nearer, but this year it was a quiet, hesitant approach. There was none of the excitement of summers past. Aaron couldn’t help but wonder what else this year had in store for them, when everyone around him seemed sunk in a cautious kind of waiting.

“Thought you said you were bringing Spence?” Sean asked cautiously, an hour and a half in when the radio had finally grown tedious. He glanced at Aaron, visible in Aaron’s peripherals, his hair neatly brushed and suit well-fitted. Some taciturn part of Aaron wondered how he’d afforded a decently tailored suit when, last he’d heard, he’d lost his apartment again.

“I was,” Aaron said coldly, squeezing his hands tight around the wheel. “He… got held up.”

“Oh.” Sean looked out the window, huffing against the glass. The day was warming. The puff of fog on the window only lingered a moment before vanishing. “Err. So. I know we… have our issues. You and me. And Dad, I guess. But, you know, I’m your brother and I try to look out for you and keep updated on your life and, ah, Spencer… I mean, wow, you found him again.”

Aaron knew where he was leading. “I’m with him,” he said quietly, and Sean made a soft _oh_ , but when Aaron glanced at him, he was smiling. “We’re been together since December, officially…”

“You know, this is the kinda shit you tell your bro,” Sean said, folding his arms behind his head and laughing harshly. There were lines of worry on his face. Aaron shivered, remembering a cold night standing alone at Rhosgobel, shrinking back as headlights had flickered up the quarry. Sean had worn the same look then, the same haunting, _I don’t want to be here._ In that town. The town that Aaron knew he’d never return to after today. “Fuck. You and Spencer, hey? I mean, I’m not surprised, as soon as you said you guys were hanging out… yeah, not surprised. He’s always been something to you, right?”

“Right,” Aaron agreed weakly, his phone heavy in his pocket. They were avoiding the subject of the end of this drive.

“And you’re, err, doing well with… school. And working. And… yeah.” They were strangers. Aaron suspected the fault didn’t lie solely with Sean. His response was a slow nod.

His cell buzzed. Aaron stiffened.

“Want me to…” Sean leaned over, sneaking his hand into Aaron’s jacket pocket and drawing the phone forth. “Text. Want to know what it says or am I going to be scarred forever by opening this? Because it’s one thing, you know, knowing your brother is dating a dude… I don’t really want to see you guys being all smoochy.”

Aaron glared at him. “Don’t be a wank,” he snapped. “What does it say?”

“It’s from your beau,” Sean teased, seeking refuge from the emotions thick in the car by being a _dick_ , once more, just like he always had. “He says ‘I’m okay, I’m with Elle and I’m really, really sorry. Will follow you when I can.’ Ahh. Aaron?”

Aaron was frozen, staring at the highway stretching ahead through the bright green spring trees, not quite yet fading with summer’s heat. With _Elle?_ Since when had Spencer and _Elle_ hung out outside of work… “Call him.” He waited as Sean held the cell to his ear, the low hum of the radio jangling his last nerves.

“No answer. It’s… turned off. He’s turned his off. Aaron? Do you… want me to reply?”

“No,” Aaron breathed, swallowing hard. The headache was back. “Wait, yes. Tell him… tell him don’t bother following. I’ll see him when I get home.”

Thy drove the rest of the way in tense silence.

 

* * *

 

Aaron felt nothing. Felt nothing as family who’d done _nothing_ to help him when he needed them hugged him and commented on _how big you are now, how grown up, and going to be a lawyer! Wow!_ Wow, he could tell, because, _surprising really, with a dad like his… a brother like his…_

And he felt nothing when he looked at the motionless, empty body in the open casket. Absolutely nothing. Not when they lowered it into the ground. Not when Sean got in a fight with their uncle and stormed off, probably to get drunk. Aaron heard the words _bastard_ and _remember_ and figured Sean had decided that he was going to remember their father _exactly_ how he was, and wasn’t letting anyone forget that. Aaron, always the mediator, mumbled something about, _a good dad, dunno what we’ll do without him_ , and felt like a fucking liar.

Mom was silent.

And after all was said and done, Aaron drove to their house. Stared at the quiet building. Climbed out and walked up the front path that had always been neat before and was now neglected, to the sun-dried front door, pressing his hand against the same, low square of wood the smaller him would have pressed to push the unlatched door open with a soft groan. The house was cold. As noiseless as the grave. Sickness hung in the air still, not quite washed out just yet. Aaron swallowed and walked robotically inside, twitching as there was a thump upstairs, the memory of phantom feet. Climbed the stairs. Walked to his room, expecting… well, Sean’s room. Dad had trashed it when he hadn’t come home. Destroyed everything.

Expecting the ruins of a child who hadn’t fucking _deserved_ any of what he’d gotten.

He clicked that door open, feeling old and awkward in his suit and tie, like he should be wearing shorts and a t-shirt instead, walking in on battered sneakers instead of gleaming dress shoes. And he found…

A shrine. It was untouched. The only sign he hadn’t walked out yesterday was a dip on the bed, where someone had sat. Aaron walked over in a daze, and ran his hand over the ruffle in the covers, the room strangely small and closed in. Children’s books, posters, a hastily drawn picture of a tower jutting from a thick forest…

“He didn’t wreck it,” he said, hearing breathing behind him.

“No,” his mom said, after a moment. “He didn’t.”

Aaron stared at the wall, before leaning over the bed and peering down at the gap between mattress and wall, where he’d used a pen to scratch in a countdown, every year, until summer. Smiled as he saw it, a sad, bitter smile. “You stopped him.”

“No.” The word was a shock, and he turned to stare at her. “I knew you’d have taken everything you cared about with you. Same as Sean did…” She looked at the dip in the bed. “He loved you. He was a sick, broken man, but he… loved you.”

Aaron stumbled away from the bed, from the accusing idea of his father sitting in here, quiet and thoughtful, thinking of everything he’d done wrong. It seemed _impossible_. “He’s a monster,” he snarled, his hip bumping his desk and knocking a cup of coloured pencils to clatter to the floor, the tips worn to nubs.

“There aren’t any monsters, Aaron,” his mom scolded, sitting on the bed and running her hand over the patterned pillowcase. “Just… people. People can be monstrous, and they can be wonderful, and they can be weak. The one thing they never are is _simple_. Your father was an abusive alcoholic who cried himself to sleep because he didn’t understand why he did the things he did. I threw him out of my bed, but not my home, the night you left. Some nights he slept in the spare room. Some nights in Sean’s room. Never in here, not until he got sick. Not until he realized he was going to die alone and unloved, nursed by a woman who couldn’t stand him in a city filled with people who despised him.”

Aaron stared at his shoes, for all like he was young and being scolded again for making a mess. “Is this supposed to make me forgive him?” he said emotionlessly. “Some pretty _words_ about his regrets?”

“No.” She tipped her head back, eyes over-bright. Skin drawn tight over a fragile frame. Worn by her years and the things she’d seen, endured, ignored. “Not at all. I just want you to know the man you hate, as I know him. Not just the dark side you saw as a child, but the light as well… the man who loved the children he’d betrayed, the woman he’d married, the life he hadn’t bothered living because he was so sunk in a bottle he couldn’t get out. Maybe…” She swallowed and the noise was ragged. “Maybe if I’d left him, taken you boys, things would have been so, so different. Complacency breeds regrets, after all. When things got so bad, so awful, I couldn’t see an end for the misery… I should have walked away. Let us all find our feet on our own. Aaron, I’m no role model. I’m weak and cowardly, and I know you’re going to walk away and never come back after this… listen to me one last time. If this happens to you, if you become _me_ , walk away, baby. Don’t let yourself drown, because you can’t help anyone like that.”

And Aaron watched as she shuddered into a soft gasp of grief, probably not for the man but for the _idea_ of him, and folded into her shrunken body. He stepped forward, and sat cautiously next to her, in the dip his father had left before he’d died, and held her close.

He didn’t tell her about Spencer, because he wasn’t sure she even believed in love anymore.

 

* * *

 

This wasn’t the smart kind of drinking. This was the ‘I’m hurting so bad I can’t think’ kind of drinking, and Aaron didn’t know where he was. Just that he was drunk, in pain, fighting against the world and the ground that kept trying to throw him down every time he got back up. He slid bleeding knuckles against the rough brick of a pissy alley wall and staggered up again, whirling, falling, but never quite impacting. Salt stung his eyes, his mouth, the cuts on his hands. His cell.

Cell in his hand.

He looked down at it and swallowed down _fury_ he hadn’t know he was capable of. Red-tinged, bolstered by alcohol, he knew he hadn’t just been hurting himself.

But he was going somewhere.

He started off, an uneven path down the street with his head bowed and hands tucked against his dirtied shirt so no late night passers-by saw the blood. And he’d been with Sean but not any longer and all he knew was that everything hurt, his head, his heart, his hands, and he just wanted it to stop. Some kind of stopping.

_Asshole_ , he thought, swaying and spotting the riverbank, the bridge that arched over. It was somewhere quiet, somehow, despite the warmth of the night. Made his way to the edge of the bridge and slid between the slats, hunching into a curled over seated position and staring moodily at the choppy water. Peace, of some kind. _Asshole_. He wasn’t sure if he was furious with himself or his dead dad or his weak mom or his hopeless brother.

His phone beeped. Again. It had been doing that a lot. Low battery. He fumbled it, almost dropped it off the edge, narrowed his eyes to bring the two screens to one. There was blood and spit and grime on the screen, and he let his head thump against the slat to his side as he heaved in two breaths that burned. Opened his inbox, wiped the screen, saw a line of received messages. A line of sent.

**To Spencer: Fuck u. I NEEDED U and u WERENT THERE**

**To Spencer: I’M ALWAYS THERE 4 U. u dnt evn bother**

He dropped his hand and swore. _Fuck fuck_. Swallowed hard and checked the received messages.

**From Spencer:**

Froze. Couldn’t read it for a moment, because there were dozens more _sent_ and each one showed a manic cruelty he hadn’t known he was capable of.

**Where are you?**

He hadn’t replied to that.

**From Spencer: Aaron, please. Where are you? We’re looking everywhere. Sean’s worried.**

“I’m lost,” Aaron told his cell glumly, and closed his eyes, squeezing back the night with his eyelids until red danced across the black. “I’m so fucking lost.” He hammered the _call_ button, wanting to say sorry, wanting to hold his boyfriend and say he hadn’t meant the text that told him to _fuck off_ or the one that snarled _useless_ , that he’d been lashing out at the nearest target he knew he could make bleed.

The cell hummed, connected, and turned off.

And Aaron staggered up, throwing it into the water with a snarl that was more of a sob, hearing it hit the waves and dropping to his knees as the world broke on his back. Tears. Fucking _tears_ and he didn’t know why, just that he was hurting, they were hurt, and he couldn’t do this alone.

A hand touched his shoulder. He jerked, wrenching away, and spun with his face grimy-wet and his bruised hands clenched. Spencer stared at him. Aaron swallowed twice, and then swallowed again, because the man was dressed in the suit he wore to weddings and funerals despite the funeral being twelve hours over, his hair was cut neatly in a style Aaron had never seen before, and his right eye was blackened against his pale face.

“Spence,” he breathed, lurching forward, gaze locked on the red-purple bruising rapidly swelling his boyfriend’s eye shut. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, baby, I’m so fucking sorry…” And he was crying again, except now there were arms around him and a warm body holding him close and he wasn’t alone, never alone.

“Was he on the bridge?” someone asked, their voice thick with horror. _Simon_. Aaron pulled back, found Simon and Elle standing back by the road watching them. Elle’s lip was split.

Sobriety was sudden and terrifying.

“What happened?” he asked, staggering, and his mouth was filling with a tell-tale amount of saliva. Spencer eased him towards the nearby garden beds, his face a Poker mask, carefully constructed. He meant to ask _who hurt you,_ and he meant to ask _are you okay_ , but instead he whispered, _I needed you_ again, because he was his mother all over and weak and not good at being alone, even when the alternative could destroy him.

“I messed up,” Spencer said, kneeling with him as he gagged helplessly, face hot and streaming, nothing left to bring up into the loamy soil anyway. A hand rubbed his back, a nose against his shoulder despite the fact that Aaron knew he was disgusting right now. “I messed up right when I needed to be there for you. I can’t make up for that, but I wish I could. I’m sorry, Aaron. It’s okay. Shh, hey…” The hand was there still and Aaron tried to shake it off, shake his head, his body aching. “Elle was… having some trouble with someone. I dealt with it.” Dealt with it apparently meant getting his ass kicked.

But Aaron was wasted, not stupid. “Liar,” he said, the word a whine, and he hated himself. Saw Spencer flinch, but he’d never been good at lying to him. Not ever. “You lie to me constantly. Always. You’re lying now.”

“Not about being sorry,” Spencer whispered, and that was true. His own eyes bright. “Do you really hate me?”

Oh.

That may have been in one of the texts too. Aaron winced, cursing the him that had thought _that_ was okay to send to a man who’d take every insult personally and hoard them like a dragon did gold. “I’m my mom,” he said instead of anything useful. “I don’t hate you. Not even for lying.” _Because I’m too weak to_ , he didn’t say, just wiped his face with his hand and made more of a mess. Spencer swore softly, reaching for those split knuckles, wincing as his fingers brushed them. “How did you find me?”

“I called in a friend,” Elle said, walking up behind them. “Come on. Let’s get you home, sloppy. You’re gonna have a hell of a hangover tomorrow.” Aaron nodded, standing. Let Spencer take one arm, Simon the other, and support him to the idling car.

“Spence?” he murmured once, tucked against his boyfriend’s chest as the lights of the city flashed by outside the car window, trying to ignore how the man was curling away from him. Yellow, blue, yellow, yellow, and maybe this medley of city lights was the colour of his grief.

“Mm?”

Aaron thought of the alcohol and the fight and the pain, and realized he wasn’t really angry at Spence. He was, but he wasn’t, and he wasn’t sure how to approach that. “Is it okay that I’m sad he’s dead?” he managed, choking himself when he realized he _was_ , and Spencer leaned his mouth against his hair and made a soft, sad sound. “Despite what he did to us?”

“Yes,” he said quietly, and Aaron believed him so he finally let himself sleep.

Tomorrow was a new day. It would be better. It had to be.


	36. July, 2002

They’d fought. Bitterly. Aaron had sobered up, and the first thing he’d noticed was his pounding head. The second thing had been his boyfriend’s face.

And Spence lied and just kept lying and refused to admit to just _what_ the hell he’d been doing that was so important he could leave Aaron burning while he did so. The texts hung between them, a wall of vicious stabbing words that they crashed against every time one of them even attempted to breech that divide. The lies were just the barbed wire spanning the top of that wall, something passable if they didn’t mind getting cut while they did so, but the texts made that impossible.

“Please,” Spence breathed finally, stepping back, pale and shaking. Aaron had stopped, his throat and head screaming in painful unison, and realized he’d been shouting. “Can we… stop? Fighting? Please…”

So they had.

But the betrayal, on both sides, lingered, and there was no absolution to soothe it.

And the weeks of summer crept on, until Aaron glanced at the calendar one night while trying to open the apartment up to coax in a stray breeze, and realized they were heading to _that_ time of the year again. The time of late night texts, Spencer gone for days on end. And he tensed, and waited for his new phone to light up with the inevitable:

**From Spencer: Working late. Love you S. R.**

“You should quit,” Aaron said, when Spencer walked in at nine am one morning, unshaven and sweaty and gunk-eyed with exhaustion. Spencer just stared at him through those wide, blurry eyes and said nothing. Following him to the bedroom, Aaron softened his sharp words with gentle hands; running them down his boyfriend’s arms, his scratchy face. “Do you want to shower before you sleep?” A slow, uneven nod, and something caught in Aaron’s throat. “Spence. Please. Consider quitting. I’ll… I’ll help you with rent. So will Ethan, we’ll work something out until you get on your feet. You’re lecturing aren’t you?”

Spencer coughed, a ragged noise, slumping against Aaron’s chest. “Too tired to shower,” he slurred, and Aaron had a vivid, horrifying realization that maybe, _maybe_ , this exhaustion was new because the prior years, Spencer had had help with the late nights. That this was him doing it sober, and it scared him. Learned habits were always triggers. “Can’t quit. I need the work, Aaron. Please don’t do this again.” _Need the work_ , was a lie, Aaron was sure. He did that a lot these days. Counted the lies, or more often, counted the truths because there were less of them. Instead of using that as a knife to drive his point in deeper, he quietly led the other man to the bathroom, locking the door and undressing him carefully, a practised, easy habit.

“Bath then,” he commented, moroseness settling over his shoulders like a cloak. “I’ll help. We’re going to talk though, when you’ve slept.” Spencer just shrugged and stared at the bubbling water in the tub as Aaron tested the temperature, flicking the tips of his fingers dry in a show of playfulness he wasn’t feeling. Water patterned across Spencer’s thin chest, getting thinner as the stress and strain of the past few weeks slowly sunk through his reserves. Aaron swallowed and looked down. He was losing weight too, mostly condition. Too tired from fighting what felt like the inevitable to drag himself to the gym or out for a jog. _I’ll fix that,_ he promised himself, squaring his shoulders.

Half an hour passed sluggishly. Spencer was quiet, curled into himself in the water, and Aaron kneeled by the bath and swirled his hand through the bubbles he’d put in as an attempt to make the other man smile. A cell-phone beeped. Aaron glanced at the two phones as Spencer didn’t react, saw Spencer’s screen lighting up with a text visible from his squatting position: _Elle: They want you in tonight._

“Assholes,” Aaron snapped, and Spence made a soft mewl in response that didn’t make sense until Aaron looked at him and saw his eyes slipping shut. “Assholes…” quieter this time, but with no less venom. He took him to bed and curled by his side as the other man slept deeply, and wondered what was in store for them down the path they were hurtling towards.

 

* * *

 

“It’s a weeknight,” Simon pointed out, following Aaron into the gloomy room. Dead, at this hour on a Wednesday, except for a bored looking bartender and a few people drinking in small, collected groups. “Why are we here on a weeknight?”

“No reason,” Aaron said, scanning the room for someone familiar. If Spencer wouldn’t listen to him, it was time for an ally.

Simon sucked in a sharp breath by his ear that didn’t exactly bode well for Aaron’s intention of _not_ being scolded tonight. “Aaron,” he began, and Aaron sighed. “Don’t make that noise at me. I know things have been… tense… since your father died—”

“This has nothing to do with Dad,” Aaron replied curtly, spotting a familiar figure sauntering between two tables and starting towards it. “Don’t make it about Dad.”

“I’m not, mate. Look, you’ve been fighting a bit with Squeak. I know, we all know, we all have to _listen_ to it, and goddamn am I glad I’m not in your relationship because you two bicker—” Simon stopped chattering abruptly as Aaron glared at him. “—anyway, irrelevant. I’m just _worried_ , Aaron. You’ve been drinking more, Spencer’s looking… a bit ghastly, honestly. And you’re not letting us _help_.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Aaron sniped, raising his hand to catch Elle’s attention. She did _not_ look pleased to see him. Fine. He wasn’t feeling fond of her either.

“Yes, because you’d sunk into a bottle again and couldn’t drive. I don’t think you brought me for my jolly conversationalist ski—why are we walking towards Elle?” Simon’s voice took on a sharp angle it didn’t normally contain, a warning bite. “I thought you were coming here to get drunk.”

Elle leaned back against a wall and watched them approach with her expression carefully bland. “Why are you here?” she asked, cocking her head and eyeing Aaron top to toe. “Pissed.”

“Pissed angry or pissed drunk?” Aaron clarified calmly.

“Both.” Elle looked around, scanning the patrons sitting just far enough from them that they couldn’t be heard if they kept their voices down and nodding with a smile at the bouncer watching them carefully. “Not super in the mood to chat, Hotchner.”

Aaron eased closer and tried not to look antagonistic. “Why?” He failed. The word was a growl. Probably a mistake. There was no way the fiery woman _wouldn’t_ lash back at a tone like that, bordering on rude.

She did.

“Oh, are we getting snarky about _my_ moods?” she asked, eyebrows arching. “That’s a bit rich, coming from the man so bitchy I’ve had his boyfriend here in tears three nights a week.”

Low blow. Aaron stared, pole-axed. The anger vanished, leaving him feeling unsettled. “What?” he asked blankly, stunned. “Spence is… what?”

She winced. “Well, not tears, per say,” she replied, rubbing her knuckles over her mouth, a thin sliver of scabbing still visible under the light lipstick. “But he’s not… happy. Not that he’ll talk.”

“That’s not my fault!” Aaron’s voice tipped louder, stress making it crack. “I told him to quit— _you_ keep dragging him back in! Into whatever _bull_ —”

“Aaron!” snarled a voice. Spencer, eyes wide and looking frantic. “Shut up, leave her alone! Why are you here?”

Why was he here? To what, try and talk Elle into backing him in protecting the man this place was tearing apart? One look at the resigned expression on her face told him that wasn’t going to happen. And he had a dark suspicion Spencer would side with Elle if he bit back at her too hard for that. Instead, he pushed closer, his breath hot on her ear, and told her the one thing that had been haunting him since he’d woken up and seen that black eye. “When he relapses,” he said coldly, and Elle stiffened. “You’ll have caused it. Hope this place is worth that.”

And he turned to leave, stopping to brush his fingers against Spencer, ignoring the anger brimming in the other man’s eyes. There wasn’t any fighting this. The world was pushing back against him.

But he’d be damned if he’d lose him without a fight.

“Sorry,” he murmured, ducking his head, and Spencer’s expression softened. “Come to my place when you finish? We haven’t had a night together in… a long time. I miss you.”

Spencer nodded. “That would be nice,” he said softly, and Aaron smiled and walked away.

 

* * *

 

They needed quiet. They needed to reconnect. They needed Aaron calm and loving, like he had been before his father’s death had unearthed all the angry sides of him. Kate and Simon vanished out on some weird Simon adventure, leaving Aaron floating alone around the empty apartment trying to forget everything that ate endlessly at him. He found the whiskey in the cupboard and chased two glasses of it with a bottle of water. He wasn’t drinking to get drunk, honest, just to try to calm the frazzled nerves that kept throwing up pictures of the woman in Spencer’s apartment all those months ago, Ethan’s stories of what it had been like, Elle’s warnings. Warnings that he had a horrible feeling had come just hours too late.

The door tipped open, clicked shut. Aaron looked up from the animal documentary playing on the TV, the room pleasantly warm and spinny around him, feeling dully relieved that the only thing he felt upon seeing Spencer walk in was _pleasure_.

“Hello,” he grinned, seeing the man frown. “I found a show on penguins. Want to learn about penguins?”

“Always,” Spencer said quietly, walking over after kicking his shoes off into the pile by the door and crouching to run his narrow fingers over the rim of Aaron’s glass. “You’ve been drinking.”

Aaron remembered the wall. _Nope,_ he thought, and shoved that thought away. They were going to _heal_ tonight, no lies. At least, not from him. _Shut up,_ he thought again, and smiled shakily. “Yes,” he admitted, swallowing down a whiskey-sour breath and aching to reach up and hold his boyfriend close like they hadn’t all month. “I didn’t want to… be like we have been. I want to fix us.”

“We’re not broken,” Spencer scolded, folding his long long legs and sprawling next to Aaron, edging over so their hips and sides slotted neatly together and leaning his head on his shoulder. “And you’re using alcohol as a crutch. You shouldn’t. Alcoholism is a hard habit to break once it’s cemented.”

Aaron pondered that. “Okay,” he said, because this was a concession he could make. “After tonight, no more drinking. On one condition.”

“Mmm?” Spencer hummed, his hand curling over Aaron’s thigh in a gentle touch that wasn’t sexual or seductive, just… _loving_. A bittersweet reminder of what they could let slip away if they weren’t careful.

“I’m kicking a habit, so you need to kick one too,” Aaron said, his voice strong despite the alcohol slipping through his veins and blurring his thoughts just a tiny bit. Spencer’s eyes snapped around to him, wary. “I know what I’m asking is… hard. Impossible, maybe. But not impossible, just… we have to be careful. Both of us.”

“Aaron…”

“No more lies.” Aaron was determined. This would be the end of it. They’d nip this in the bud, and they’d be stronger for it. Spencer turned rigid and blank beside him, frozen with _something_. “If I ask you something, you be honest. Or as honest as you possibly can be.”

“That’s an impossible request,” Spencer said finally, as the penguins huddled together for warmth and protection on the TV set his eyes were locked on. “My secrets don’t protect only me.”

Aaron swallowed down a bitter taste. “Elle’s a cop,” he said briskly, feeling Spencer jolt. “If that’s what you’re hiding, I figured as much. Elle’s a cop, your workplace is rotten to the core, and you’re right in the fucking middle of it all. Are you under investigation or are you helping them?”

Spencer stared at him. Aaron winced. Bad start.

“Don’t answer that,” he said weakly. “Stupid question. You can’t answer it, I shouldn’t have asked it, it’s probably obvious anyway… Elle wouldn’t be so fond of you if you were her crook.”

Silence bit into the room. Aaron tensed, feeling Spencer’s fingers lift off his leg before flattening back possessively. “FBI,” he said finally, and Aaron felt something tight and knotted in his chest that he hadn’t been fully aware of carrying ease. “She’s FBI, and please don’t ask about her. She’s… she’s helping me, Aaron, and putting herself in danger to do so. I won’t betray her.”

“Okay,” Aaron agreed. “But… the black eye was… something to do with that?” A nod, sharp and worried. The strain on Spencer’s face doubled, carving lines on his skin that were far too old and deep for someone so young. “ _Can_ you quit? I promise that’s my last question.”

Spencer stared at the penguins, his expression sharp and breathing rapid. Slinging an arm tight around his shoulders, Aaron tugged him close, feeling the tattoo of their hearts pattering together. “No,” he breathed, finally, and Aaron closed his eyes with the regret there. “I… borrowed money, Aaron. For… mom and then for the dr-drugs. I _need_ Elle, and I promise, once she’s done, it’ll be over. I’ll be free, no more of _this_ , and we can be us. But… it could be a few more months. We need this business cycle over. They need me to see _everything_. I’m the best bet they have, and they couldn’t use me beforehand.”

“They needed a witness,” Aaron said, and it crashed into him and turned his guts to water. “A clean witness. Sober. _You’re_ their witness? Spence, if they find out…”

“They won’t.” Spencer shuddered, huddling in closer. “They can’t. Which is why I need you to back off, please. I know you’re trying to protect me… but Elle is too.”

Aaron nodded, and they lapsed into a comfortable silence. He reached for his glass, topped it up, and Spencer made a severe noise. “After tonight,” Aaron murmured without looking at him, because all he could imagine was those bright eyes dulled, a bullet snapping his head back, a knife in the night… anything. Everything. Just this night, just to get through the sick horror of realizing everything was so much harsher than he’d thought.

“Fine,” Spencer said, and now his voice was bitterly cold. “Sure, fine, I get that. Just for tonight, so I can sleep. And maybe tomorrow so my appearance doesn’t deteriorate for work. Perhaps the night after, because I don’t want my friends to worry. Aaron, don’t make excuses to an addict. If you want to drink, drink, but know that I’ve heard and _said_ all the bull before.”

A tense, waiting quiet settled, as Aaron’s fingers traced the amber-filled glass and Spence rested his own hand atop, a warm pressure. Comforting. Spencer broke it first. “Just tonight,” he said finally, and picked up the cup. There was sweat on his lip, the oscillating fan catching his hair and flicking it back from his coldly determined eyes. “Okay. Just for tonight. You know what? I trust you.” He paused, swallowed, and Aaron watched with fascination as some internal battle was quickly fought and won. Spencer downed the glass, wincing at the burn, his tongue darting flicker-fast over his pink lips. “I trust you,” he repeated, and his eyes were dark.

Aaron got up and got another glass.

 

* * *

 

Aaron bit down and tasted copper and sweat, a low hiss of sharp want skimming his ear. He bucked into that hiss, skin sliding against skin, his back sticking to the wall with the humid air. Naked; he was naked, pressed against the wall by a forceful line of heat and hunger, slick and ready.

Spencer twisted in his grip, Aaron’s hand curling around him twice in slow strokes, his eyes dark dark dark in the shadows of the bedroom. Mouth twitched open, panting unevenly, he jerked up as a low growl squeezed up from deep in his chest and snuck out of his mouth to press against every part of Aaron that was paying attention. _Every_ part. Aaron groaned, arching up into that firm pressure, feeling Spencer crowd eagerly against him like he was trying to crawl inside him. Nails scraped his collarbone, his chest; fixed points of pain that bit and dragged downwards and took all of his blood with them, dragging it straight to his cock.

It was desperate, wild, needy, and probably a mistake but neither of them were stopping.

Teeth. Nipping at his throat, biting down, and Spencer surged and rocked against him. Aaron choked on that pressure, his own hands snapping around Spencer’s thin waist and dragging him roughly forward, his back and ass smacking the wall and making the frame shudder. Spencer turned in his grip, those eyes still wide, haunting, and Aaron felt lost in them. They kissed. It was a sharp, bladed kiss. Rough-edged and wild and tasted like desperation. “Want you,” he breathed, tasting whiskey on both of their lips, feeling the body under his hands tremor and still as Spencer turned again, twisted; silent since they’d first tangled on the living room floor and fumbled their way in here in a frantic, giddy attempt to completely undo the other as fast as possible.

“Please,” Aaron groaned as a surge of _needwantnow_ sparked down his body, his cock twitching against the other man’s. It had been so long. This. This was something they still had, they still needed. If they had this, they were fine. He clung, nails, fingers, pressing his mouth against the hollow dip of Spencer’s throat and mouthing damply at the skin, whimpering into the sweaty line of his throat. Spencer dropped and Aaron staggered, unsure what had happened as cold air rushed against his burning body, but then there were fingers digging patterns into his hips hard enough he’d be able to count them tomorrow, his ass hitting the wall again, his hand splayed against the desk to keep his balance, a rough mouth wrapped around him, swallowing him down.

“Fu—” he choked, bucking without being able to stop himself, and Spencer rode that movement. On his knees, his eyes cast down on what he was doing, and he set up a vicious, unrelenting rhythm that shattered Aaron from the knees up. He was making stupid noises; stupid, needy noises, and there was a hand digging into his leg, his hip, his ass, slipping around.

Spencer slid off suddenly, _thankfully_ , because Aaron was on the drunk side of tipsy and didn’t really have the stamina to deal with Spencer’s clever mouth when he _was_ sober. Staggered up, swaying, his dick hard and swaying with him, and Aaron licked his dry lips as he glanced down at that. Cocked his head to the side, eyes still cold—they _were_ cold, Aaron realized suddenly, looking up and into them, and the savage desire sunk in them drew him inexorably closer—and said in a voice that was him and somehow not, “Would you let me fuck you?”

Aaron blinked. The words snapped deep into him, into a hot core in his belly and below that he hadn’t been aware of, and it was definitely a mistake but a _delicious_ one. Instead of answering, he pitched away from the wall, knees smacking against the side of the bed in his hurry, fumbling for the bedside cupboard. He didn’t trust his voice. “We’re drunk,” he said finally, the lube cold in his hands as Spencer walked up silently behind him and took it, eyes still shuttered but mouth turned in a gentle, familiar smile. “Should we?”

Spencer shrugged, his hand wide and warm on Aaron’s back. “It’s just sex,” he said, in that same voice, and Aaron shivered. Wanted. “You can fuck me if you’d rather.” He pushed closer, crowded, eased Aaron onto the bed and slid his knees to either side of him. Mouth against his ear, purring, fucking _purring_ : “I can get you off with my mouth if you like.” His fingers trailed on Aaron’s cock, teasing, tongue curling around the lobe of his ear before sucking it into his mouth and nipping gently. “Or you can have me. I don’t care. Just want you.”

Jesus. _Jesus_. Aaron was breathless. “We’re drunk,” he repeated, but as Spencer _snicked_ open the cap of the lube and coated his magician’s fingers with it, he arched and whined with anticipation.

“We’re drunk,” Spencer agreed, and pushed those fingers slowly and roughly at the same time inside him. Aaron squeaked because it _hurt_ , a little, but in a sharp-burning way that eased into something deeper. They paused. Spencer pulled back, some unease skidding over his narrow features. “Drunk,” he murmured again, swaying, the motion driving his hand forward until Aaron was chanting along with breathy gasps of _ah please_ without actually being sure of whether he was asking for more or less or for a do-over. “Lonely,” he added, his wide mouth twisting into something awful to see. He added another finger, more lube, and Aaron was sticky and uncomfortable but glad he was being liberal with it. “So fucking lonely.” He dropped his head forward, pressing against Aaron’s chest, his back shuddering.

“I’m right here?” Aaron managed thickly, but then Spencer moved roughly, a pistioning tilting shift of his fingers and hand and Aaron wasn’t there anymore, not really, but being shredded slowly by pleasure-pain and hunger and a pitched need for something more than this. Dazed, acting on impulse. Lube in his hands, the cap slick and tacky to the touch. “Condom?” someone said, from somewhere, along with, “Do we really need one?”

Spencer looked at him. “There’s only you,” he said, his voice ragged. “Only ever you. Your choice.”

Aaron might have chuckled, might have nodded, but mostly he was focused on his hands and the lube and the uneven shift of the bony chest against his as Spencer bowed into those hands as they coated him. The minutes ticked by, swollen and heavy, broken only by their rasping breaths, the wet sounds of bodies shifting together, the mattress creaking under them.

“Spence,” Aaron said distantly, because he was tied up, a fizzing knot of nerves and desires all wound around the one centre point where his boyfriend was intently working inside him. “I just. Can’t we… _something_.” _Good words, Aaron_ , he thought, and maybe laughed. _Good lawyer words, you… lawyer, you._ Spencer didn’t say anything. Something sparked. Aaron let himself be guided, knees on the sheets, the fingers sliding away and leaving him hollow and cold. Silence. It sparked again, as a wet hand curled around his hip, fingers rubbing with a tender care. Worry. It was worry. He gathered his brain, his stupid, messy, fucked up brain. “Why are you lonely?” he asked stupidly, late, and turned his head back to look at his boyfriend kneeling behind him with his hazel eyes locked on the curve of his spine and his expression oddly rigid. “Spence?”

The other man twitched, snapped awake to glance at him. Short hair growing back choppy flicked across his eyebrow, his mouth shifting. “Hmm?” he asked, and that hand stroked deeper. A wide, slow stroke that melted Aaron under him, finding muscles and points of pressure Aaron hadn’t even been aware had been building. Aaron whimpered, wriggling, sinking belly-flat to the bed and easing into the soft surface. Boneless, still drunk, lazy with love and still turned on but nowhere near as violently. They were paused on the cusp of something more and it could go either way.

“Why are you lonely?” he murmured again, into the pillow, but Spencer seemed to hear him anyway as he sunk down next to him, slowly. Lay himself prone alongside him, arms around his side and mouth against his neck, kissing slowly in a line of warm touch. His cock was softening between Aaron’s legs, still almost needy, but Aaron’s arousal was fading into a happy kind of _whatever happens happens_.

No answer. Spencer’s kisses quickened, alternating them with nuzzles against the line of his shoulder-blades, breath hot and lovely against his skin. Aaron hummed with indolent satisfaction, writhing slightly into those gentle touches, shifting his leg to rub along the line of his boyfriend’s dick. Turning him on again, probably cruelly, but it was impossible to resist the temptation.

“I’m just waiting for you to leave,” Spencer answered finally, pausing with his nose tilted against Aaron’s spine and his tone resigned. “Always waiting.”

Aaron took those words and pulled them close, pulled them apart. Studied everything within them. Tilted his hips up and back, moving his hand down to coax his boyfriend hard into his palm, before shifting it up against him and rubbing down against it, feeling the sharp pitch of the breathing change against his back. “I’m not leaving,” he promised, and pushed slowly, so fucking slowly, down on that blunt shape. It hurt. Holy fucking shit, it hurt. They hadn’t. Tried this, not yet, Spencer hadn’t… wanted to. “Ow,” he whimpered, not regretting this. Spencer paused. Rasped something out in a husky voice that he missed because he was squeezing his eyes shut. “This is. Ah.”

“Breathe,” Spencer said, but his voice had gone tight and shrill. It wasn’t helping. It wasn’t normal. They’d tried plenty of stuff before, new things, old, and Spencer had always been coaxing, calm. Not shrill. Not panicked. But he wasn’t moving, he wasn’t breathing, and Aaron curled into himself at both those things and tried not to overthink them. “Breathe, Aaron. I’m not moving. You go as slow as you…” He trailed off, trembled horribly. “We’re drunk. I’m drunk. Aaron…” It teetered the moment, lips brushing his shoulder. Tipped the balance towards _stop._ Spencer kissed him once and Aaron wanted to roll over and press their lips together properly, but he was scared to move in case it shifted the easing pressure back into that sharp-edged splitting pain.

And Spencer breathed out, a slow, even breath. When he spoke again, the strange echo to his voice was gone. “I’m going to stop now,” he said calmly, his hand steadying Aaron’s hip. “That’s enough.” He eased back, slipped out, gone. Aaron shuddered, sucking in a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, rolling over in a blur of sheets to wrap his arms around the other man. Spencer held him back, his grip steady and features calm, but there was something dark in his eyes still. “Sorry,” he whispered, hunching his hips away. “Went too far. I don’t think well when drinking.”

“It’s okay,” Aaron told him honestly, because it was. “We’ll try again another day. I love you.”

The night dragged on. They cleaned themselves up, kicked the sticky sheets from the bed, and ended up laying exhausted on the bare mattress with their fingers curled together. The something dark didn’t leave Spencer’s eyes and Aaron was too scared to ask in case he answered.

Neither slept, and morning was relentless in its approach.


	37. Relapse

“I’m sorry,” Aaron said, the day after that disastrous night, and Spencer had just smiled tiredly and murmured that it was okay.

“It was just as much my fault as yours,” Spencer said reasonably, stretching luxuriously across the bed with his back arched and toes digging into the mattress. Aaron laughed gently at the odd contortion of his body, trailing a finger from his sternum down to his belly button and snorting as Spencer inelegantly squeaked and dropped back against the bed to escape the sleepy tickle. “But… I think we can be better now.” His jaw set stubbornly. “Because I don’t ever want to feel that _lost_ again.”

Aaron agreed. He’d been lost far too often this past month to ever be okay with knowing Spencer felt the same way. Which meant no more drinking. As it turned out, Spencer broke his promise first.

Two weeks after that night, Aaron was wrestling with yet _another_ complete shutdown of Simon’s damn TV, glancing up at a familiar knock. Simon let Spencer in, still complaining loudly about not being able to watch NCIS, and Spencer pressed against the wall and said nothing. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. Aaron squeezed back the instant worry at _that_ expression, and leaned back onto his heels to look up at him. “Everything okay?” he asked, running desperately over everything that could make Spence look this skittish. His mom, Elle, the nightclub, maybe his dad, maybe he was sick…

“Yes, yes,” Spencer rambled, nodding quickly. Eyes over-bright and the collar of his shirt done up too tight around a sweaty throat, the air outside still stifling. “Everything is good.”

And Aaron sighed, because it was a _usual_ lie from the man, but it was still a lie.

Something rustled in Spencer’s hand as he shifted his arm up to itch at his nose, eyes cutting to it and face twisting minutely. Finally, he rocked forward, slipping down onto the floor by Aaron and dropped what he held to reach for the panel Aaron had tugged off of the back of the TV. “Here, let me. I can probably…” He fiddled, intently, and Aaron eased back as Simon ducked in as fast as a cat and nabbed the paper Spencer had dropped.

“Oooh, clever clod, look at you,” he teased, unravelling it. Aaron watched him, the tension easing into something manageable at the glee on Simon’s face. “You’ve won an _award_. God, by the look on your face, I thought someone had died.”

Spencer’s mouth turned upwards, thinly. “Yes,” he said softly, head nodding. “I have to give an… acceptance speech. For it, and my doctorate, and the college wants to showcase… showcase me because of my age, I guess.”

“Spence, that’s great,” Aaron said, feeling the tension turn to a wide grin. “Fantastic! You’ll be Dr. _Dr._ Reid!”

“And Aaron can keep happily bragging about his super smart boyfriend to anyone who sits still long enough,” Kate added, strolling into the room with her shirt tied around her middle and pants rolled up. “Is it hot in here? It’s hot in here, right? And smells like hot dudes, gross. Why is the air con broken?”

“Aww, she called us hot,” Simon said, beaming. Aaron inched closer.

“Not in the good way, dumbass,” he said, reaching… reaching… “She means you stink. And you do. Why _is_ the air con broken?” Got it! He grabbed the paper and rolled away, accidentally colliding with Spencer who went down with a yelp. The TV powered on at the same time, blaring out the barked lyric _take off all your clothes_. They froze. Kate broke first, bursting into almost painful sounding laughter and hunkering against the centre counter.

“We were going to fix it,” Simon said snootily, clearly having decided retrieving the invitation wasn’t worth joining in on the small wrestling match going on down on the living room rug as Spencer wrapped his legs around Aaron’s torso and attempted to drag his elbow down to grab it off of him, both wheezing with exertion in the uncomfortably warm apartment. “We were prioritizing.”

“The TV over not smelling like a middle school gym?” Kate rolled her eyes, stalking over to the silent air conditioning unit. “God, you guys _suck_.”

Spencer slipped out of Aaron’s grasp like an otter, suddenly impossible to hang onto when he’d decided to be _wriggly_. “I’ll help,” he chirped, always a fucking people pleaser, and vanished with one last despairing glance at the invite, taking Aaron’s tools with him. Pleased with himself, Aaron smoothed the paper out and read it as his housemates bickered over hygiene, only glancing up with a smirk at Kate’s exasperated, _“I’m not telling Spencer off because **he’s** clearly at least attempted to shower today—no, Simon, geddoff—don’t you dare touch me, Simon!”_

_… Guests speakers include the foremost expert of cognitive development, Dr. Ross Connors, PhD; environmental ecologist, Dr. Kathy Lauders, PhD; Dr. Spencer Reid, PhD… all guests are encouraged to bring their partners…_

“Spence,” he said suddenly, his brain clicking into gear. “Were you… were you going to ask me to come to this? As your…”

“My partner,” Spencer finished softly, and the two others fell quiet. Aaron looked up, at him standing facing the cooling unit, his sweat-damp shirt clinging to his tense shoulders and back. Seemingly completely focused on his task, despite every eye in the room now being locked on him. “If you’d like that.”

Aaron would. Oh god, he would. But…

“I can’t,” he said, and his throat pinched tightly. Simon nudged Kate, the two of them slipping away to the other rooms despite the bedrooms being literal saunas right now. The air con hummed and coughed, before purring to life and blowing blissful air into the room, Spence’s hair shifting in the new breeze as he tilted his chin down and to the side. Looking without looking, a muscle in his jaw working. “Spence, you know I can’t… it says partners only.”

“You’re my partner,” Spencer replied roughly, dropping whatever tool he was holding onto the couch with a huff. Aaron was glad _he_ was handy, although he always wondered where he’d learned to tinker. “I want _you_ there.”

“You want me there in front of your colleagues and mentors, as your gay boyfriend?” Aaron murmured, his chest hurting. Spencer winced. “Spence, love… that’s… I don’t know. It could hurt us both. We’re not established in our careers; you have students… a doctorate won’t protect you from fuckwits who think theirs is the right way about things.”

Quiet, broken only by the air conditioner and the chatter from the now fixed TV.

“You’re right,” Spencer said finally, turning around properly now and smiling sadly. There was a worrying over-bright gleam to his eyes, a frantic twist to his mouth that betrayed the smile, and Aaron choked back the urge to exclaim, _wait, I was wrong—of course I’ll come!_ “It wouldn’t be… particularly not for you. Not when you’re trying to get into law…”

And it burned his throat and his eyes and his heart, but all Aaron did was nod slowly. “I’m sorry,” he said, and looked back down at the scrunched invitation. “One day, I promise.”

 

* * *

 

The week after was… odd. Erratic. Spencer stuck closer than he ever had before, until Aaron got almost used to waking up _every_ morning with the other man in his bed, something that usually happened only every other day. Not that he was sleeping. Aaron watched him carefully through slitted eyes one night, noting how he’d drop into a restless sleep, then shake himself awake, eyes wide and locked sightlessly on the ceiling. During the days, he paced, answering any queries tossed his way with curt one word replies a beat too late. During the nights, he snapped in and out of this restless slumber. It grated on them all, this anxious mood, until Aaron snapped, _why are you doing this?_ and instead of answering, Spencer had just shrugged and vanished to work.

And come home fine. More than fine.

He came home _Spencer_.

“We should go out,” he said, perched on the back of the couch like an overgrown parrot with his bowtie on still over his grimy work shirt, beaming widely when Aaron glanced back at him from where he was wrestling, once again, with the broken cooler. “Like, out. Somewhere _fun_.”

“Thought we were avoiding alcohol,” Aaron pointed out, giving up. Simon could deal with it this time. He padded to his precariously balanced boyfriend and looped a finger from each hand through his belt, pulling him closer. Heat radiated between them, and they both flinched but didn’t pull back. “Me, especially.”

Spencer grinned, leaning forward to bump his nose against Aaron’s. He smelled sweet, like his cologne and pen ink and the candy he’d been stealing from Simon’s side of the pantry. Aaron laughed, flicking his tongue across that sticky mouth and tasting the artificial strawberry still traced there. “Don’t need alcohol to have fun,” he said, something that Aaron _knew_ but still blinked to hear. It… had felt like forever since he’d had a night out without it. Not since…

Not since Rhosgobel. And the storm beforehand. Scattered nights between, rare and easily missed.

“Well, okay,” he said, and snuck away to grab his car keys and lob them at his boyfriend’s shoulder. Slow to react, they clattered off and fell to the floor, and Spencer sighed. “But I’m trusting you here. Don’t make me regret this.”

He didn’t.

They drove until they were in a nondescript neighbourhood, windows cracked open to let in the twilight breeze pushing through the drowsy city. Spencer pressed his fingers to his lips, took Aaron’s hand, and led up him twelve flights of stairs until they came out on a rooftop that overlooked… everything. The thin smattering of city stars, the lights rolling on across DC, the Potomac glinting in the distance.

“See,” he said proudly, perching on the side of the building and tilting his face up into the breeze, for a moment frozen like that in Aaron’s memory. “Perfect without alcohol. Have you ever seen something so wonderful?”

Aaron smiled, studying him against the dark blue sky. “No,” he said quietly, and didn’t look away.

Three days later, he woke up from a doze to Spencer dangling the keys over his head. They ended up buying ice-cream—buying _each other_ ice-cream, which Aaron was sure he’d gotten the worst deal of since Spencer had taken the opportunity to mix five different flavours that just shouldn’t be mixed, while he’d gone with a delicious rum-raisin for the other man—and walking down by Georgetown Waterfront. Even at this time, the ice cream melted quickly, spooling between their fingers and making a mess. Spencer finished his, finished Aaron’s for good measure, and then dragged him through the crowds of kids and families straight into the high-arching fountain, ignoring Aaron’s yelps as a blast got him straight in the cheek. At least it got the ice-cream off.

A week later, the night _before_ , they went again. Nowhere in particular this time, just driving until the city was behind them. One moment before it all slipped down. They parked in a copse of trees, dry branches brushing the roof, and Aaron found himself with a lapful of hungry, cuddly genius. They kissed until their mouths were sore, stopping occasionally at a flicker of movement from the thick trees around them, as the moon yawned above. They didn’t go home because they were clinging to something. Some haunting darkness that kept reappearing in Spencer’s eyes, that they were both resolutely ignoring. Aaron didn’t ask because he knew Spencer might just answer, and it might just change everything.

Dawn broke, weak and warm, and Spencer made a soft noise. Curled sideways in Aaron’s lap, oddly comfortable in the contorted position despite his lankiness, with his legs sprawling across the centre console to rest in the driver’s seat, he was staring out the window with his eyes wide. Aaron blinked awake from an over-warm half-doze, feeling warm and gluey and a little bit aching, inching himself up to look too as a single deer picked its way through the undergrowth in front of their silent car, gone in a heartbeat. Like a faded memory.

“We should go home,” Aaron said finally, reluctantly, because it was warming up and Spencer needed sleep before tonight. And probably to practise his speech; the memorization of the words was fine, it was his delivery that was… wanting.

“We should,” Spencer agreed, not moving.

They stayed a little longer, and later, Aaron would wish they’d stayed longer still.

 

* * *

 

They needed, Aaron decided that night, far more excuses to get Spencer all dressed up, because _yes please_. Suit tailored in just the right way, hair brushed back neatly but with stray curls still looping cheekily around his ears and temple, hips and ass defined nicely by the dark slacks…

“You _are_ coming home straight after, right?” Aaron teased, pressed up behind him and nuzzling the back of his neck, humming into the cool skin. Spencer leaned back into his touch, positively vibrating with tension. “Because you’re going to need to run off some of this edginess…” He traced his hands around those hips, smiling as Spencer’s expression eased into amusement. “You know, burn off all that exhilaration from absolutely acing your speech.” He gripped gently, tugging Spencer back against him and cheekily rolling his hips forward. “Plus, with you looking like _this_ … I’m a jealous, jealous man, Dr. Reid. I need _constant_ reassurance.”

“You’re a perve,” Spencer commented wryly, turning in his grip. “Aaron…” He paused, swallowing. Something sparked between them, something unsaid, and Aaron tried to read the moment. Did he want him to ask? Or respect his reservations? The moment snapped before he could decide. “Never mind. Do you mind if I borrow the car?”

“Course not.” Keys were collected, wallet. Aaron kissed him hungrily one last time before he walked out the door like a man heading to his execution. “Spence?” He looked back, smile tight. “You’re going to be great, I promise.”

“You will be,” Simon piped up from the couch, trying to both grab the remote from Kate and balance nachos on his lap at the same time. “Seriously. We’ll save you some candy for when you get back. Positive reinforcement.”

Spencer nodded jerkily. “Positive reinforcement is only successful when the reward follows the desired response within five seconds,” he said absently.

“There he is, there’s our squeaky little scientist!” Simon raised his hands in delight, the nachos toppling. Kate caught them, barely. “Shit! Just show them that side of you, Spence, they’ll love it.” Aaron laughed, turned back to say goodbye, but Spencer was gone. Aaron joined his friends on the couch, groaning as they turned on _Legally Blonde_ with identical shit-eating grins.

Maybe he’d just nap instead… and snore _extra_ loud, just to piss them off.

 

* * *

 

He jerked awake to someone trying to beat the fucking door down. Simon was up, his eyes stunned and locked on the rattling front door. Kate stood next to it, her hand wrapped around the lamp next to the TV cabinet, both looking to him. Aaron leapt up, showering corn chips onto the floor from where some _idiots_ had been balancing them on him, opening his mouth to bark out the harshest _who’s there_ he could muster while still half asleep.

He was cut off by a volley of rough Spanish and another barrage of fist meeting door. “Hotchner, open the fucking door,” Elle snarled, her voice muffled, and there was a thump as something heavy slid against the wood. _“Gah.”_ Simon moved quicker than Aaron had ever seen him move, wrenching the door open and barely making it out of the way before Elle tumbled in, pulled forward by the listless weight of whoever she was dragging. Aaron blinked, looking her over, looking down at the man she was towing upright with a grunt, and recognised him.

“Spence?” he asked, dumbly, and Spence looked up at him and grinned sloppily. A sloppy, stupid grin that slipped unevenly onto his face and showed far too many teeth. Wide pupils. Wide, broken pupils that he narrowed against the glare of the dim light.

“Hi, Aaron,” he slurred, tilting again, and Elle growled and looped her arm tighter around his waist, yanking him back up again. He giggled. Fucking _giggled_ , curling his fingers over her shoulders to hold himself steady and flopping against her shoulder. “Elle smells _lovely_.”

“Is he high?” Simon asked, voicing what they were all thinking. “Jesus, _what_? How?”

Spencer’s head cracked around with startling speed considering how absolutely fucked up he looked, his skin shiny with sweat and expression still a vacant mix of nothing familiar. “Diamorphine solution mixed with cocaine hydrochloride injected intravenously into the basilic vein in a co-administration intended—”

“Shut up.” Ethan slid in behind them, his expression ruthless. “Shut the _fuck_ up, Spencer, what the fuck?”

Aaron flicked his tongue over his lips, feeling them scratch and scrape at the dry skin. “Where did you find him?” he croaked, and teetered between stepping forward into this nightmare or stepping away. Too much. Too many people, too many voices, too much drawing him towards the man shattering in front of him. “ _How_ did you find him?”

Both of them. Together?

“Been tailing him for a couple of days,” Elle answered after a beat. “He’s been… acting odd. Erratic. I was…”

“Worried,” Ethan finished. Spencer was quiet, looking at nothing in particular. Aaron had seen that look before, as his pupils thinned in the light. Coming down. He was coming down. Coke wore off quickly. “Don’t get your hopes up, Hotchner. He fucked off from the ceremony before we knew what was happening. Found a speedball. He’s still _high,_ just not on the upper _.”_

“Get off,” Spencer mumbled suddenly, shaking Elle off of himself and stumbling forward, towards Aaron. Aaron stepped back, the backs of his legs thumping against the couch, but the man tipped into him. A hot, sweaty weight that slid down, his fingers tangling in Aaron’s shirt and short nails catching. Aaron heaved him up, feeling sick, grabbing his jaw with one hand and tipping his head back to examine his eyes while his fingers pressed against the rapidly slamming pulse in his carotid. Spencer purred, “Hi, baby.”

“Don’t do that,” Aaron hissed, feeling exposed and open and raw in this circle of judging, furious eyes. “Don’t talk to me like that when you’re like this.”

Cold eyes. Aaron watched them shift from silly and high to cold and dark. He’d seen eyes like that before. Seen them the night they’d gotten drunk and ended up in bed. And the tone. The empty, hollow tone he’d used as he’d whispered _I want you to fuck me._

He used it again now.

“Why not?” he said, smiling again. Not a nice smile. Not a Spencer-smile. It was a _I’m going to hurt you and like doing it_ smile, and Aaron remembered how cruel coke used to make Sean when the rush wore off. “Don’t you like it?” He pushed closer, nuzzled into his neck, and Aaron was rigid and horrified. Looked up to find Simon looking away, Kate gone, Ethan fucking _staring_ , and Elle watching Spencer with her eyes narrowed. “Isn’t this what you _want_?”

“I’m taking him into my room,” Aaron snapped, tugging the man with him. “He’ll sleep it off.”

“Aaron…” Kate. Hands wrapped around the first-aid kit she kept over-stocked, mouth thin. “Not a good idea. If he’s mixed stimulants and depressants, one is going to wear off before the other. It’s an easy overdose, even for a genius. He needs to go to a hospital, to be monitored.”

“Oh, that’s going to look lovely on any government jobs he goes for in the future,” Elle said. Ethan said something sharp in reply, something Aaron didn’t catch through the buzzing in his ears.

“Can’t you and Aaron keep an eye on him?” Simon was saying, his voice the only thing cutting through the panic. Spencer was a rigid, unhelpful shape in Aaron’s arms, his gaze ticking from one person to the other, shivering, his face locked into a suspicious mix of anger and confusion.

“I can get some naloxone, likely,” Elle said, the same time Ethan said, “We have Narcan at home. If we get that, we can ride it out—”

Spencer shuddered. “They’re going to take me away,” he hissed, turning and curling into Aaron’s chest, his eyes huge and hatefully blank. “They’re planning to take me away. Listen to them. Don’t _let_ them. You promised you’d keep me _safe_.”

Aaron’s heart twisted and thumped at the same time, a disorientating surge of emotions that left him shaking and frantic, scrabbling desperately for some lifeline. “I’m putting him to bed,” he said finally, and then when no one listened, “He’s not leaving here!” He couldn’t even voice _why_ that was so important, just that he couldn’t, _couldn’t_ , see him vanish away under a flurry of medical personnel, sure that whoever returned from that experience would be less, somehow. This was one fuck up. Just one fuck up, it wasn’t the _end_.

It couldn’t be.

“Aaron…” Ethan said, or maybe Simon, Aaron couldn’t fucking listen anymore.

“Come on,” he said firmly, shaking Spencer by his shoulders until he finally made eye contact. “ _Look_ at me, Spencer. We’re going to bed. Okay? Come _on_.” He dragged him. Halting, uneven steps, staggering, but Spencer followed. He’d gone from paranoid and fighting Aaron’s hands on him to placid and willing, flicking wildly from one mood to the other as the cocktail surged through his system.

“We’ll go pick up the Narcan,” Elle called after him, tapping Simon on the elbow. Aaron turned, nodded, turned back before they leave. Heard her mutter, “Keep an eye on him,” to Ethan, taking the keys he offered her.

The bedroom. Aaron shoved the door open, poured Spencer through the door and kicked it shut, turning away from his boyfriend to run his hands helplessly through his hair, his head spinning. Spencer pressed back against the wall, watching silently. “Why?” Aaron asked him desperately, but Spencer just stared. Pupils pinning as Aaron watched, slowly constricting beyond what they should in the bright light of the overhead as the cocaine slipped away and left him lethargic under the sole influence of the heroin he’d cut it with. “Fucking _answer me_.”

“Are we abiding by the rules, Aaron?” Spencer asked, smiling again. A bladed smile. Sharp and cutting and dangerous to move too close to. “No lies?”

Aaron swallowed, _hard_ , choked on it. Drifted over to the bed, his head aching and slumped onto it with his knees knocking together. Dug his elbows into the joints of his knees just to distract from everything else that hurt with those two fixed points of pain. “Don’t even think about lying.”

Spencer laughed. He laughed. A harsh bark of a laugh that nonetheless sounded almost amused. Moved forward in a flicker of jittery movement to slip onto the bed next to Aaron, crowding close. Not hot anymore. Not hot, but cooling, his skin pallid as he brushed his fingers slowly down Aaron’s arm and left a trail of goosebumps that had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with how sickly familiar the gesture was.

“No lies,” he repeated, voice thick. “What a request. What a _stupid_ request. You’re so stupid sometimes, Aaron.”

Enough. Whatever. Aaron stood, furious, felt Spencer’s hand snap around his wrist and drag him back down as the other man surged to meet him. Mouth crashing into his roughly, fingers digging into his side; thrown off balance by the unexpected contact. Aaron staggered back against the desk with a _thump_. Hands. Too many hands, cold lips, too forceful, too _much_ , and Aaron shoved him away.

Spencer went. Barely. Came back with and nipped against his mouth, breathing ragged and eyes empty empty empty.

“Stop,” Aaron yelled, shoving him again. Spencer pulled back, eyeing him carefully. “Jesus, fuck, _no_ , Spencer. You’re going to bed so I can kick your ass when you’re sober!” A hand slid up his thigh, hesitated, slid over his crotch. Aaron rammed his knee up, knocking it away and putting a barrier between their bodies as they both panted. Spencer smirked. Aaron hated him, for that heartbeat. “No!” he snapped, desperate, along with a grated, “What the _fuck_ , Spence?”

“You wanted the truth,” Spencer replied, blankly. “Here it is. There it is. Not nice, is it?” He closed his eyes, a shattered kind of moan slithering from deep in his chest. A hurting moan, that hiccupped as it escaped and hid, for a moment, the cruel mask he was wearing to taunt Aaron with. Slumped forward, slightly, and Aaron caught him and let him fall against him; helpless against that wordless need. “This is _me_ , Aaron. How I am. And I’m _repugnant.”_

“No, no,” Aaron breathed, his fingers tight against the man’s spine, feeling the heart against his slow and stumble and speed and patter. Nothing even. Nothing steady. Everything was fucked. “God, no. Never. This is… we can fix this. If you tell me what the hell happened.”

Alien eyes skipped around to his face. Spencer pushed forward, mouthing at his neck, and Aaron caught him gently and eased him back, using the same knee to edge his hips away. Thankful, at least, that the other man wasn’t actually responding physically to his clumsy attempts to push himself at Aaron, because he wasn’t sure he could deal with that level of messed up tonight. Or ever. “What happened?” Spencer asked. Smiled again. Laughed. “He offered me a _drink_ , Aaron. I presented my speech and he walked up, shook my hand, smiled, and offered to buy me a fucking drink. ‘Just how I used to like it,’ he said. How _fucked_ is that?”

What.

… _What?_

“Who did?” he asked, confused. Spencer’s chest was heaving, his lips dark against his pale face. When he jolted forward to kiss Aaron again, he tasted like salt and copper. “Spence, stop. Please.”

“Don’t tell me to _stop_ ,” Spence shouted unexpectedly, Aaron twitching at the sudden noise, and ripped himself away. Paced. Aaron breathed, wary. Heard the door snick open, Kate. Probably worried from the shouting. “Why are you telling me to _stop_?”

“Spence, you’re not making sense,” Kate soothed, stepping in. Leaving the door open. “Aaron, we have to calm him down. He’s going to freak out. We can hear him losing it out there.”

Okay. Bed. They could do this. Aaron stood robotically, using his hands gently to wrap around the other man’s sides. Turned him towards the bed. Spencer looked at the bed and laughed again, shrilly, jerking back. His head slammed against Aaron’s jaw as he lurched away. Accidental, but Aaron staggered, seeing stars and tasting blood as he bit down on his tongue.

“I thought you said stop?” Spencer whispered, stopping indeed and staring at Aaron as he probed at his bloody lip cautiously. “You’re a mess. If you’re going to fuck me, Aaron, just _do it_. He said you would. That it’s all you wanted.”

“Oh jeez,” Kate muttered, tilting the water bottle in her hands. _Slosh slosh._

“Come on,” Aaron coaxed, hands up. Open. Consoling. _Trust me_ , his posture begged, because he just wanted Spencer to fucking _sleep_. Wanted this night over. “Bed, Spence. We’ll talk in the morning. You’re going to sleep this off and you’ll feel better, I promise.”

Spencer cocked his head. Still with the glassy eyes that Aaron couldn’t actually make eye-contact with without his stomach dropping through the floor. “You said no lies,” he accused. “But that’s all you _do_. Lie. Lie lie lie lie and you blame me for all of it, constantly.” He pitched his voice low, cruel. “I _love_ you, Spencer. I’ll keep you safe. It’ll be just like old times. We can make it work. I just want you to be yourself tonight. We’ll _always_ be friends.” He choked, gritted his teeth, threw the next words out into the stunned-silent room like they were physically tearing him open. “I’ll come get you in summer and figure things out. All _lies_.”

“Spence…” Aaron breathed the words, wheezed them. Spat them out of the hole in his chest where the man had ripped it open to expose all the vulnerable parts of him. Kate backed away, towards the door, horrified to be viewing this. “That’s not… none of that is…” He tried to hug him. Stupid, maybe, but they’d never broken like this before, crashed up against each other so destructively. And Spencer let him.

Pushed close to his ear and snarled, “This is what you _want_ ,”, his teeth nipping. Aaron squeezed his eyes shut and felt sick as Spencer ruthlessly continued, “Fuck him while he’s heedless, she said… while I’m _mindless._ Just like _he_ did. Isn’t that something you’d like, Aaron?”

The word dropped and stayed, big and swollen and swallowing down all of the oxygen in the room. Aaron felt his eyes snap open, felt his body turn distant and unresponsive, saw Kate’s expression bunch. Three people snap-frozen in this airless moment.

“What?” the distant him asked, his voice strange in this new world.

Spencer sagged in his grip, his mouth panting against Aaron’s shoulder but not to seduce anymore. It was a wet, slimy pressure, hot. Aaron’s stomach lurched as the man drooped, held up by Aaron’s arm around him, felt the hot-damp cheek slide across his throat. “He offered me a drink,” he repeated dully. Kate was moving forward, her mouth shifting, talking. _Nodding out_ , she was saying, and Aaron stared at her. _Aaron, he’s dropping._ But he was still talking, slurring, “He offered me a drink and I took it, Aaron, and it got me so _fucking_ high.” Hazel eyes met his, not alien anymore, but Spencer’s and broken. “I begged you to help me, like Gandalf did Radagast, and you were supposed to _be there_ but you… weren’t. And he was. And I wanted it, honest _._ ”

“I didn’t know…” Thin words. Useless. Aaron hated them instantly. Spencer nodded, his expression almost awed. Almost like he’d figured something out. “You didn’t tell me.”

“Of course not,” he said, almost sensible. “You’d blame yourself.” A pause. The pause before the blow. Aaron braced. Not enough. “ _I_ blamed you. God, I hated you. And you said no, so I knew you wouldn’t help me. If you’d listened, it wouldn’t have happened and I was alone. So I went back.” He was dropping, eyelids folding, expression drooping. Kate managed to catch his weight, staggering with a squeak. Aaron numbly helped her shift him to the bed, heard the final resigned, “Don’t you _see_ , Aaron. I had absolutely… absolutely nowhere else to go,” and then nothing.

Nothing.

A scuff by the door, a footstep. Aaron looked up, away from the limp, discarded form of the man he loved so much he couldn’t think, and found Elle staring at them both. Simon was visible as a hint of shadow by the doorframe. And the moment shifted, became public and dangerous. Aaron stared them down, coldly, unable to feel anything but empty at that moment. When Elle pushed the door open a little more, she brought a wisp of cool air from the other room, brushing against his scorched face. Freezing the dampness Spencer had left there, the burning heat around his eyes. He reached up, touched his cheek, felt numb. His fingers were wet.

“Aaron,” Elle was saying, had said, and now Kate was touching him too. _Aaron aaron aaron aaron_

_If you’d listened it wouldn’t have happened._

_Just like **he** did._

“Aaron!” The words were sharp, but the stinging shove of her hands against his collarbone was sharper. Elle. Pale. Sick looking, under her olive complexion. He stared at her. “Where’s Ethan?”

What?

“I don’t know?” he snapped, because why would he fucking care? Not _now_. “Get out, get _out_ , get out, now. I want you all out!” Shoving them away. Standing. Swaying. Falling. Dizzy.

“Aaron.” Simon. Simon would help. Simon _always_ helped. Aaron turned eyes onto him that he knew were desperate, knew were pleading _get them away from here._ _From what I’ve done_. “Please. Where is Ethan?”

“He would have heard,” Kate said, from so far away, and Aaron felt raw. So many people heard. _So_ many people. “Oh fuck, Aaron, he would have heard everything.”

And it clicked. What would Aaron do. If faced with this man.

He tasted blood.

“Stay with Spencer,” he managed to Kate, to Simon, to anyone who’d listen. “We have to stop him.”

Or help him.

Aaron hadn’t quite decided.


	38. Repay

During the entire drive to Ethan’s house, all Aaron could think of was the look on Spencer’s face when he’d whispered, _I wanted it._

_Honest._

“We _should_ be taking him to a hospital,” Simon was snapping from the driver’s seat, his hands shaking on the wheel as he laid onto the horn at a driver who unwisely slipped too close. “You heard him— _something_ happened there. If he was hurt, he needs medical help.”

“We were watching him, nothing happened to him there,” Elle argued in return. “He didn’t show any signs of physical injury, he was agile enough to slip away without me or Ethan seeing him _and_ he put up a damn good fight when we dragged his ass into my car. If he was dosed tonight, he’d be dead. With the cocktail of what he shot up—”

Aaron blinked. The neighbourhood outside was greying, dingy. Spencer’s home was close. “It didn’t happen to him tonight,” he said quietly, and Elle and Simon both glanced at him. He let them. What would they see? Nothing. Nothing worth seeing. Where would Ethan go? Home? Did he own a weapon? Or straight to the college? To the man? What was the man’s _name_? Aaron imagined someone cruel, a wicked smile, creeping hands. A voice like smoke. _A monster._ But that wasn’t right, because Spencer’s letters never talked about creeping hands or smoke-like voices… no, they just talked about friendship and magic and always coming when you were needed. Except when he’d asked… Aaron hadn’t…

“Aaron.” Elle again. For a while now. He looked at her.

_I wanted it._

“What?” he asked, irritably, unbuckling his seat belt with a steady hand. Steady, steady hands, and he clenched his fist just to check and smiled at the responsiveness of his muscles. Yeah. They’d be steady alright. Spencer’s letters…

“He’s not going to be here,” Elle was saying, her eyes intent. “And we don’t know _who_ he’s going after. You knew Spencer… before? Before all of this?”

Aaron stared again. How… “Before what?” he asked, whisper deadly, because how could she know _anything_ about them.

Elle’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t be obtuse,” she snapped, fierce for no good reason since she couldn’t _know_ what Aaron knew. How his failure had lost them something so fucking _amazing_. Where would Spencer be now? Without the drugs? Somewhere _more_. “Aaron, look at me. He took my car, it’s not here—Ethan’s gone straight for the man, and we don’t even know who he is. Spencer _does_. And you do too. He talked to you like you knew.”

“I don’t.” It was a choked moan. “I don’t know anything. Just… there was a man. A professor. I think… he was talking about him. Mentored Spence when he was… fifteen.” Aaron shuddered and the words shuddered with him. “Spencer disappeared, one day. For years. And I guess…”

The car had gone painfully still at the word _fifteen._ It drew up to the parking lot, parked crookedly behind three other cars, and Aaron launched himself without finishing from that noisy silence and hurtled for the door, the others following. Up the stairs, no pausing to breathe, the burning was _deserved_. The door was locked. He skittered on restless feet until Simon caught up, unlocked it, plunging inside. Straight for Spencer’s room as the others went for Ethan’s, and it was walking into a wall of _Spencer_. His scent, his life, swirling around him. This bitter, half-lived life that was all that was left of the boy Aaron had failed. He looked around, and saw nothing of Rhosgobel. Just a mattress on the floor, a box of clothes. He padded forward blankly and tugged the sheets on the mattress back, examining the bottom layer. They were rumpled, marked with sweat despite the scent of laundry powder that still lingered. Recently cleaned, recently soiled.

Spots of blood. Brown and dry. Spencer hadn’t fallen tonight. He’d relapsed days… possibly weeks ago.

_You kept two jobs going,_ Aaron had said to him once. _That’s pretty high-functioning._

And Spencer had laughed. _Aaron, that’s not high-functioning. If I was a high-functioning addict, you wouldn’t know about it._ They’d joked about it because it was really the only way either of them could broach it in conversation. Now, Aaron was pretty sure it hadn’t been a joke, but a warning. Another one he’d missed.

“He’s not here.” Simon. Aaron bunched his fingers in the sheet. They could go to the college, but if the nameless professor had left… Ethan knew him and they didn’t. They just needed a _name_. They needed to find him, ask him _why_ , ask him how he could hurt someone like Spencer when… “Aaron, for fuck’s sake. You need to get out of your head and _help_ us here.” Simon’s voice was a whipcord, and Aaron had never heard him angry. He turned on his heel, still crouched by the mattress with his fingers tangled in the sheets stained by Spencer’s failure to cope alone.

“Where’s Elle?” he managed, seeing Simon standing alone, his face pale, his shoulders slumped. “Ask her. She’s FBI. Get her to… I don’t know. Track his phone.” Listless. He wanted answers. He wanted restitution. He wanted Spencer. Ethan was very low on that list of wants.

“She’s in Ethan’s room trying to call him,” Simon said finally, and Aaron figured he was going to just keep being _useless_ , so he shoved past to go and ask her himself. Simple fucking Simon alright.

He pushed open the door, stepped inside of the room that was Ethan all over, and Elle was sitting on the bed with her head bowed. When she looked up, it wasn’t anger on her face. It was something completely alien.

Fear.

Aaron caught his hand on the doorframe, fingers gripping, and clung to hold himself upright. Studied that expression. Looked away, because there was something familiar and raw in it. Scanned the bookshelves, the tattered paper covers of countless band manuals and bound sheet music. Looked back.

“We’re not going to find him,” she said, and he was angry for a moment that she seemed to have forgotten who’d truly been hurt tonight. Or years ago. Or every day since. “We’re not going to find him and this is going to ruin his life. Ruin _him_.”

Aaron recognised the expression.

Oh.

That was love. Well, fuck.

“Yes, we will,” he said, and shoved aside the creeping nothing that was trying to cripple him. “The ceremony might not have ended yet, or the man might not have left…”

“We need a name.” She shut her eyes, the lids flickering. “Aaron, you said he was fifteen. When did he meet this professor? _Come on._ You know more than you think.”

“Thirteen.” The word bit. “Barely. He’d… just started college.”

And Elle’s eyes snapped open. She stood fast, dangerous, the fear gone in a heartbeat and the spicy, predatory gleam back to her narrow face. “He’d have given him gifts,” she said, intent, striding towards him. “Expensive ones. Aaron, Spencer was a _child_. You want to get a child’s trust, you give them presents. Presents they can brag about. Ones they can show their friends. Show _you_.”

It seemed insane that they were here, arguing about this, when they should be driving or home with Spencer or… he blinked. “A book,” he said, and thought of green. “Leather, expensive looking. Nothing else, that I know of. He wouldn’t have kept it.” He hadn’t kept _anything,_ why would he keep a memento of the worst part of his life when, so far as Aaron had been able to tell, none of their letters had survived.

“Yes, he would have,” Elle breathed, scrunching her face. Thinking hard. Aaron imagined she was running over the hiding places in the apartment. The fact she wasn’t moving for Spencer’s room implied she’d searched it before and knew it wasn’t there… once again, Aaron was the last to know about something he should have _picked_ up on. “You don’t just drug and assault a fifteen-year-old as publicly placed as Spencer would have been. He would have had other professors, students, his mom, _you_. This man had a career to protect, a life.” She was talking to herself now, eyes distant, and every word was a knife. “He’d have isolated him; made sure there was no one he truly trusted, except for himself. Not just from his peers, but his mom, from you—”

“He never isolated him from me,” Aaron snapped, burning with the suggestion from his face to his chest. “We _never_ fought, not until…” Not until the end. When Spencer needed him most. When he’d been most likely to run for safety.

He felt sick.

“—took him years to make a move, almost two whole years, he would have made _sure_ he was in Spencer’s head, his…” She paused here, swallowed. Aaron braced. “… heart. Spencer cared about him, or he would have run. Smart kid, probably saw it coming. Didn’t know how to hurt someone he loved. Aaron, he would have _kept_ that book. Where? Come _on_.”

There weren’t any books. _None_. Just some college textbooks, a few battered magazines in the bathroom, Ethan’s…

They both looked at the shelf at once diving for it. And there. Bottom shelf. Green and leather and well-read. Gilded title, _The History of Middle-Earth_ , and on the inside…

_To Spencer,_

_My pride in you has no boundaries. I cannot wait to watch you succeed, and to be there with you when you do._

_Yours, Dr. Ross Connors_

That hadn’t been there when he’d showed Aaron. Or…

He’d folded the dust jacket over it, hiding the words. _He’d have isolated him._

“Go,” Elle snarled, shoving him towards the door. “Car, now! I’m right behind you, making a call. Go!”

 

* * *

 

Elle’s contact was a terrifying woman. Aaron heard chattering on the other end, she hung up, and right as they were pulling up outside Spencer’s college, she rang back to inform them that, _Ross Connors is still inside, he hasn’t left yet but the ceremony closed half an hour ago, and if anyone asks, I’m his sister, okay, my darlings?_

“There’s five parking lots the man _could_ have parked in,” Simon pointed out, almost hanging out the window as he looked around the dark zones of cars and trees. “And if Ethan’s on foot…”

“We’d better be as well,” Aaron said, adrenaline shooting through him as he wretched open the car door and rocketed out. Focused on the now. Only the now. Not on what was happening at home, what had happened years ago, just finding Ethan, finding _Connors…_

“Aaron!” Elle. Warningly.

He jogged backwards, yelling back to her as the night closed around them, “I have my cell. We’re faster split up!” Then they were gone, swallowed as he sprinted around a jutting verge of trees and stumbling down a ditch that separated the two levels of parking lot. And the night settled into a strange, nothing, pattern of his shoes thumping on the asphalt as he jogged up and down rows of sedate cars and empty bays, looking for Elle’s car, looking for Ethan lounging in waiting, looking for a man he didn’t know the look of but knew, somehow, he’d know innately if he saw him. Somehow. Empty, empty, empty, _tha-thump tha-thump_ , his shoes beating along with his heart and his breathing harsh and getting harsher as he pushed himself until he hurt and then a little more. Maybe, somehow, he could make up for it like this. Somehow.

So many somehows, not enough concrete answers.

Groups of people moved past him occasionally, only sparing him the barest of glances. College campus, they probably thought he was a student out running. He was dressed for it. Every old man that walked past, greying and sour, he stared at until his eyes burned with more than just the sweat that dripped into them. But none looked _right_. He looked and he looked and the parking lots around him emptied, lights flickering off in the auditorium in the distance. He stopped. Breathed. Broke, a little.

_I wanted it._

_No,_ Aaron thought, closing his eyes and remembering a closet, nervous hands, those frantic, fumbling first kisses. _You wanted **that**. Something… clean._

And his brain wouldn’t leave him alone. Worst case scenarios thrown up from the recesses of his mind that studied too hard, knew the cases, watched late night Law & Order. Snapshot images from the darkest parts of him. Spencer, the age he was now because even _Aaron’s_ mind couldn’t connect the remembered scrawny just shy of fifteen Spencer, with his coke-bottle glasses and long hair, with images of him realizing the betrayal, cornered somewhere dark, the glass slipping from his hand, falling. Lying curled and broken somewhere alone.

_Shut up, shut up,_ he snarled, and squeezed his eyes shut. _You don’t even know what **happened**._

But shit, he didn’t need to be a genius for that one.

“Are you okay?”

Aaron whirled around. An old man. Knuckles lax around a cane, his back straight. Muscles shifted in his bicep when he eased back to examine Aaron carefully, his shirt sleeves rolled up and suit jacket folded over one forearm. Old. But fit. Probably fitter four years ago. Fit enough to pin down a spit-skinny kid with no fighting experience. And his face… cold eyes. Sharp jaw. Handsome, enough, if you liked the spark of intelligence in them, the dark hair…

The night grew hotter and colder all at once. There was an ID around his neck. Aaron couldn’t read it from here. He inched closer and the man’s hand closed around the cane.

“Are you okay?” the man asked again, sharper, and a family moving past looked over at them. The father began to hurry them to their car, watching back over his shoulder. “You’re sweating, lad. Have you taken something? Look, I’m a doctor. If you’ve taken something, I can help you. Trust me.”

“My name is Aaron Hotchner,” Aaron said through numb lips, his arms tingling and his legs disconnected. “Is that name familiar to you?” _Stupid, stupid, don’t tell him your name_ , something in the back of his mind whispered, some primal part of him that was curling up excitedly at the idea of learning what bones felt like when they snapped under his fists. Power, Aaron assumed. It would feel like power. _The cops will ask._

The man’s face shifted. “Okay, Aaron,” he soothed, and stepped closer. Stupid man. Aaron squinted at the ID, but the light from the security light behind them was at the wrong angle, casting a glare over it. “Alright. Do you have family I can call? Do you live on campus? Will you let me check your pulse? I’m concerned about your colour.”

_Do it,_ murmured the sharp part of Aaron’s brain. _Come closer._

“Doctor?” someone called. The father. Hurrying towards them. Aaron looked at him and _hated_ him. Hated that he was there, hated that he could see his kid staring at them—a girl, short and skinny and bouncing on her heels like she wanted to run after her daddy. And, just like that, the anger faded and left him shaking. Drained and empty and he staggered back, suddenly fucking _exhausted_.

“It’s okay, he’s okay,” the professor was saying to the man. “Aaron here is going to let me see to him, aren’t you Aaron? He’s not feeling well.”

“I’m not leaving you with a stranger,” the father was saying, scowling at Aaron. It was a dark look on a kind face, and Aaron felt raw to see it. Scraped open, and oddly miserable at the idea that if his kid ran up to him, she’d see that suspicious expression.

They still hadn’t found Ethan, helped Spencer, and it was his fault. It was too much. Too much and he had to… sit.

“Woah, lad. There we go. Careful now.”

“Anton, he could be on something. At least call security to sit with you.”

_Anton._ Not even the right man. And Aaron had been so _ready_. His shoulders shook like he was laughing, head bowed and eyes locked on his bare knees, hands clawed over them. Laughing, except something hot hit his hands, splattering down his legs, and his face was burning. _Not even the right fucking **man** , Aaron, you screwed that up as well. _

Voices. Familiar. His friends, probably. Maybe they’d done better than he had. _Aaron? What the hell?_ Simon. Just Simon. A hand on his shoulder. _No, he’s not on anything. We… had some bad news tonight, sir, he’s probably upset. Yes, I’ll take him home. Thank you. No, really, thank you. Aaron?_

Aaron blinked up through the damp haze, watched the father turn and scoop up the girl as she ran towards him. Seven, he hazarded. Seven years old. _Guess what life has in store for you_ , he thought miserably, as the father paused to look back at them, still hesitant. _Nothing good. Nothing good for anyone._ Dark eyes studied him. Aaron stared back, unashamed.

“Yes, I’m coming.” A hand touched his shoulder, the old man. The doctor. Professor. _Anton._ “You, lad, get home. Shock will do you in. Let your friend help you.” He nodded, not expecting an answer, and strode away. “Yes, Connors, I’m coming. I’m not old yet!”

“Aaron, com—” They both snapped their heads around at once. Stared. Simon’s hand moved so fast it audibly cracked as it whipped around Aaron’s arm. The father walked away, talking to the doctor. The father. The young man— _young_ , barely what, fucking _thirty?_ —and his _family_. A wife. A child. “Don’t,” Simon pleaded, with his eyes and his voice. “Aaron, don’t go over there. Please. There’s a kid. Witnesses.”

Aaron tried to reassure him, tried to say something, but he couldn’t look away from the man and the girl. The girl who wriggled until she could peer over her dad’s shoulders at him, smiling.  Hazel eyes. Hazel eyes, brown hair, tied back in what had probably been a neat bun at the beginning of the night, now spilling everywhere. A pink dress. He’d never forget that pink fucking dress, the bow tied carefully around the waist. Lovingly. He wondered if her daddy had done it for her. She waved.

She waved like everything was wonderful and Aaron broke.

He didn’t remember leaving.

 

* * *

 

“Elle, we have to go home, he’s…”

“One more place. Please. He’s been _sober_. If he wasn’t there, he’s out destroying himself somewhere.”

“Okay…”

With every bump or turn, Aaron’s head thumped the window. He didn’t care. Just curled up tighter and wondered what he’d do to protect his daughter if he had one. How far he’d go for her. What he’d do if someone took his little girl and beat her because they were drinking and angry, or let her brother run away into the night, or slipped her drugs and told her they loved her and then hurt her in every possible way…

Wondered what he’d do if it was him doing the hurting. His hand on his child.

“I’m gonna be sick,” he mumbled, but they didn’t hear him. “Simon…” It was a moan.

They heard him that time. Simon glanced back, swore, pulled over, and Aaron threw up food he didn’t remember eating into the gutter. Another door opened. Elle. She walked around, kneeled beside him, hand rubbing between his shoulderblades.

“He has a daughter,” Aaron tried to explain, and gagged. “He’s not a monster.” But he had to be a monster, because humans couldn’t _do_ this.

“It’s shit, isn’t it, Hotchner?” was all she said, and helped him back into the car. Handed him water to rinse his mouth, to pour into the gutter. Then, they drove some more. When Aaron looked up again, he was alone with Simon by the jazz club Jeremy owned, and he didn’t know how long they’d been stopped.

Simon glanced at him, his fingers tapping his phone. “Kate says Spence is okay,” he said warily. “Says he’s sleeping, his pulse is normal, she got some water into him.”

“He said anything else?” Aaron asked, watching a couple stagger out of the club’s door, barely making it off the step before folding into each other. Stupid in love and reckless with it.

Simon swallowed before answering, but he was honest. “Asked for you. Ah… was. A little upset you were gone. Kate calmed him down.”

Another failure.

“I’m going to get Elle,” he said, because the car stunk of sweat and fear and vomit and he couldn’t bear it. Not the car, not Simon’s gentle worry, not the phone in his hands that beeped again and reminded him where he should be, not the memory of a pink dress tied with a blue bow. “Stay here.” Simon, to his credit, stayed. It was that, or the car would end up towed, so he didn’t really have a choice.

The club wasn’t packed, but it wasn’t empty, and Aaron squinted around and saw no one familiar, no Elle, no Ethan…

A touch on his arm. The flirty bartender, except she wasn’t flirting tonight. Just pointed, wordlessly, to a door leading off. He thanked her with a nod and weaved through the smoky crowds, the scent of alcohol thick and alluring. Nothing would be kinder. The door was silent as he pushed through and wandered down a dark hall. Narrow and thin, he passed a stock room, a closet, a wet room, found an open hall with chairs stacked from wall to wall and an old concert piano shoved against the chairs. Two people sat there.

And Aaron stopped. Intruding on a wordless moment. Elle with her nose tucked against Ethan’s hair, his shoulder curled against her chest and head bowed low. Her arm around him, pulling him close. An embrace that was casual, learned, intimate. There was a sealed bottle of whiskey on the piano, and Ethan’s shoulders shook with the soft sounds of pain.

Aaron broke first, hearing Elle murmur something, a soft voice that was _private_ , he knew, because he used it on Spencer only when he wanted to see the other man soften in every way. The voice that wasn’t a bedroom voice, it was nothing about sex, but it was everything about comfort and love and knowing you were needed. He walked in, scuffing his foot on the rug, and they pulled apart.

Elle’s face was clear, blank. Ethan’s was swollen, red, and he hid neither. Aaron swallowed. Reconsidered everything. “We can’t run from this,” he said finally, and looked at the bottle. “No matter how bad it gets.”

“It’s gonna,” Ethan said, his voice thick. Aaron wondered how he could wear his pain so openly, so rawly, when Aaron felt vulnerable if he showed the world a smile. “Get bad, I mean. Hotchner, you have no idea what hell we’re in for. And…” He husked back whatever he was going to say, hunching into himself. Long hair ratty and damp at the ends, sticking to his salt-wet face. He brushed some from his mouth, licked his lip. “God fuck, I should have fucking _known_. He used to get so fucking wasted and just… fuck. He was a kid. And I just let him… _self-destruct._ I’d push him away, laugh, or I’d play along and let him pass the fuck out in my bed and then go sleep on the couch. And I didn’t even _think_.”

Aaron had to ignore that. “Doesn’t matter,” he said roughly, and wished he could believe this himself, but he was always better at being steady for others. He’d always handled his father better when Spencer needed protecting, handled his life better when he was a role-model instead of a cast-away friend. Even his life _now_ was better because he had something to live up to. He rose to a challenge, but only when that challenge was offered to him. “We’re hurting over this, but he needs us. All of us. And more.” Jabbing his finger at the bottle, he added, “And none of that, for either of us. Or he’ll just use that as an excuse too.”

Ethan stared blearily. A careful distance between him and Elle. Aaron wondered if they were fucking yet, distantly, but didn’t think they were. Wasn’t sure why he had that impression. “I can’t do it,” the man said blankly. “I can’t… Aaron, half the crap I did to get him clean I only had to guts to do because I thought he was being a _shit_. Just rebelling against his parents. How do I use that against him now I know why he’s really doing it? I can’t… and I don’t have the energy to try. I’m done. I’m fucking done. I can’t watch it again.” _You do it,_ his eyes said. _Please, take this from me. This burden I’ve carried._

_He’s not a burden,_ Aaron thought, furious now. Not now. Not ever. “Well, you better,” he said coldly, “because if you walk away now, there’s no coming back.”

He didn’t look back when he turned and walked away, but they both followed.

He was glad, because he didn’t know how to do this alone.

 

* * *

 

Kate had him laid out in the safety position, and he was horribly, horribly still. Like a scene from a nightmare, carved in blues and whites and browns. A winter scene. Aaron hated winter.

He checked on him before he showered and then he watched him carefully as he dressed, and then he ducked in and out constantly as they talked in low, serious voices about what came next ( _rehab, therapy, what do we do about the man, there’s a child, there’s no evidence, therapy, his mom, work_ ). He took in none of it and barely contributed. Gave up eventually and slipped into the room with Kate’s instructions ringing sharply in his ears and drowning out the thoughts of drugged drinks and pink dresses. Outside, they’d continue talking about him. Them. Spencer. He didn’t care.

“Spence,” he breathed, because his partner looked dead and it was terrifying. Spencer didn’t move. “Oh, _Spence.”_

And he let himself be less. Shuffled forward until his knees found the bed, found the carpet, scraping raw as he pulled himself close and bowed over the side until his temple was resting on his boyfriend’s arms, his eyes scrunched tight and his stomach hurting every time it heaved out with a shuddering breath and cut against the mattress. He stayed like that until his knees burned and his back ached and the skin and sheet under him was wet and sticky and hot, and then he stayed longer. Moving meant coming away from this shattered moment, meant looking up into a marble-carved face that showed nothing of what Aaron had let fester when Spencer had been _screaming_ for help the whole time. Moving away meant slipping back up from the leaden exhaustion that followed letting go.

A hand touched him, a butterfly brush against his cheek. He shifted, eyes sore and heavy and barely open. Normal pupils. Normal pupils, hazel, purple-sore lids, and he thought of a pink dress. “Aaron,” Spencer slurred, more tired than anything, and Aaron pushed closer until he couldn’t breathe and thought the bed might cut him in two. “Why are you on the floor?” Aaron swallowed. Glanced sideways to the clock, saw the red numbers tear and blur and settle into a rough _5:16_. He dropped his gaze again, because apparently he wasn’t done shattering, and Spencer’s voice sharpened. “Are you _crying_?” Fear now. Fear and shock and terror. The hand pulled his face up, tilted his chin back, and Spencer swallowed hard and recognised the look in his eyes. Aaron watched his gaze cut down to his arm, the bruised crook with the ragged track-mark where his hand had shaken. Still oozing. Aaron watched him shiver, watched him catalogue his body, watched him recognise the hunger simmering under his skin. Voice empty, “What did I do.” A statement, not a question.

Aaron couldn’t face it tonight. “Can I be with you?” he asked, and shuddered as his words hit him. “Just… hold you. Please. Just tonight.”

Spencer looked at him oddly, behind shattered-glass eyes. “Yes?” he answered, and that was almost a question. “What did I _do_?”

Aaron slid onto the bed as Spencer inched across, wrapping his arms around the other man and clinging as though he could explain how much he loved with the force of his embrace. Like he could drag everything that was awful and rotten away and bear it himself. He was the one with the fucked up family and the druggie brother. He was the one who failed at school when things got hard, who didn’t believe in magic, and Spencer should have been so much _more_ … it should be _Spencer_ watching _him_ fall, not the other way around. Because Spencer would understand; sometimes you had to walk away.

But Aaron was his mom.

And his mom never did.

“Nothing,” Aaron answered finally, as light filtered into the room through the wonky blind. “You didn’t do anything. And… neither did I.”

And there was nothing he could do to atone for that.


	39. Recursion

The rim of the bathtub was a cold, harsh line across his ass as he sat awkwardly on it, watching as Spencer winced and probed at his eyes, buckled over the towel slung across the sink. “Need help?” he asked, and wryly thought that the answer should be an affirmative _yes_.

“No,” Spencer said quietly, finally managing to get the contact out and groaning, pressing his thumb hard into his eyes. They were sore and weeping, and Aaron winced in sympathy and fiddled with the glasses in his hands. “Aaron…”

Aaron passed the glasses over, standing up despite Spencer’s affirmation he didn’t need help and reaching for the eye-drops. The other man’s hands were rattling against the sink, the shakes working their way cruelly up his arms. It had taken the almost an hour just to get this far. “Tilt back,” he murmured, keeping a careful distance between them. Used his hand to brace his boyfriend’s head as he obeyed, the moment tender, somehow, despite the wall rearing itself between them. Spencer visibly relaxed as the eye-drops eased the discomfort, his eyes semi-focused on Aaron as he used his fingertip to carefully catch a stray drop, pausing with his finger trailing near the other man’s mouth.

“Thanks,” Spencer mumbled finally, breaking the frozen heartbeat. Aaron stepped back, watched him fumble the glasses on and look tiredly to the shower. Even back here, in the harsh bathroom light, Spencer looked wan. Flushed blue with a sick grey tint under that, the only spots of colour the bruising on his elbow and a feverish flush across his cheeks and bare chest. “Are you going to speak to me at any point, or should I accustom myself to being glared at for the rest of my life?”

Aaron winced. “I’m not glaring.” That was met with an incredulous look. “I’m… thinking.”

“It looks like it hurts.” Spencer appeared to regret the attempt at a joke even before it slipped from his mouth. “Do you have ibuprofen?” He followed Aaron’s finger as he pointed at the top shelf of the cabinet, the child-locked medicine box. Product of Kate’s paranoia; the oldest of five siblings all far, far younger than her. She also had a tendency to do Aaron’s washing if he left it lying around, something he wasn’t entirely sure he was comfortable with, but that Simon took _full_ advantage of. But, no matter how much thinking he did, Aaron didn’t know how to say it. How the hell did you say _talk to me about the worst time of your life_? The life that Spencer only ever visited when he was falling.

So, he chickened out. Cowardly, as always.

“You know what happens now, don’t you?” he said instead. Spencer dry swallowed four pills with an ease that had Aaron _really_ glaring at him now, fingers tracing the towel as he shifted the contacts to their case. He didn’t answer. “This isn’t something you can tackle on your own, Spence. You _shouldn’t_ have to tackle it on your own.”

“The drugs?” Spencer asked softly, clicking the contact case shut. He edged away, nervous and cornered, and flicked the toilet seat down to perch uncomfortably on the lid. “Or… other things. That you won’t talk to me about but that I _know_ I talked about. I can see it on your face.”

“See what?” Aaron wrapped his grip around the bath, arching his back to try and work out the tension, feeling his spine pop. Hunched forward, too tired to keep up the posture.

Spencer stared at a fixed point over his shoulder as he answered, voice bland. “That I’m a victim to you now. You flinch when I try to touch you. It’s not disgust over the drugs, you’ve faced them before. It’s not anger, because you’re hovering over me like you’re worried I’m going to break. In fact, _none_ of you are angry. Not even Ethan, and he should be…”

They were pushing closer. The subject loomed, thick and clouding, and Aaron was gagging on it. As though it was trying to force itself out of his throat, in painful, agonising detail; dark hair and a kind face and a girl in a pink dress. He forced it down. It dropped to his chest, spread to his limbs, and his foot began to shake against the tiles as it instead worked its way out as convulsive trembling. And Spencer watched and said nothing.

“You blame me,” he said suddenly, and that wasn’t what he’d thought he’d say when he’d planned this conversation over and over and over again. “You… it’s… my fault.”

And Spencer stared, stunned. The one thing Aaron could have said that he didn’t expect. Eyes wide, mouth open. “I… don’t,” he stammered, coughing slightly. “I don’t, Aaron, what? No. No, no, you were _sixteen_. God, no.” Aaron just kept staring, knowing he’d babble his way back to a corner. “Maybe… maybe when it happened. I just wanted something to blame. But, god, no, not now. You don’t believe me.” Hazel eyes narrowed, skimming him up and down. “Wait, no…”

“Spencer…”

“ _You_ blame yourself. Aaron, no!” Spencer’s voice was shrill, still husky from the night before but pitched painfully with his panic. “It’s not even as horrible as what you’re imagining—”

“How could it _not_ be? You were fifteen—”

“—I absolutely initiated, I swear, it wasn’t _rape_ —”

They both flinched and fell silent at the word. Aaron swallowed. Turned himself cold and cruel for this. “I’m going to take a teaching position at the end of my degree,” he said, and stared Spencer down as he did so. “I’m going to be twenty-seven years old.”

“Aaron…”

“I’m going to teach a class of high-school students interested in law… one of them is fourteen. He’s a sweet kid, shy. I take him under my wing and he trusts me _completely_ because I’m twenty-seven years old, an adult, and for his entire life he’s trusted adults. He’s told to trust adults. To trust teachers. They’re in a position of power over him, you see, he can’t _disappoint them_.”

“Stop it.”

He didn’t stop. “And one night, I’m going to get him drunk. High. Whatever. I like to do it, I’m an adult, he’s _practically an adult,_ right? After all, he’s so much cleverer and more mature than those other teenagers he’s surrounded by… he’s _different_.”

“Seriously, this is nothing like what happened, you’re creating a strawman analogy—”

Aaron wanted to close his eyes, to look away from Spencer’s paling face and the sweat curling over his lip, the way he’d folded his arms in tight around his chest like he was trying to hug every bad thing inside. But he couldn’t. And he hammered it home. “When he’s drunk, I’m going to sleep with that kid. I’m going to take him to bed. It won’t be rape. He wants it. He completely understands the consent process.”

Spencer was shaking now. “It’s not the same,” he whispered, throaty and shattering. “You wouldn’t do that—”

“Why wouldn’t I? You just said. It’s not rape.”

Check-mate. There was no pride in this victory.

Silence crowded them. Spencer looked away first, dropping his gaze to the grimy tiles and his bare toes splayed across them. Aaron waited.

“What do you want me to say?” Spencer whispered finally, almost to himself, and Aaron felt something inside himself rip open as something dark hit those tiles between his toes, pooling into the grout. “What revelation am I supposed to have here? You don’t think I don’t already understand the implications of what happened?” His voice was getting louder as he went, something dark building and spilling over; something that had been building for the past four years. “Of _course_ I fucking understand, Aaron. Or did you think you finding out would be some magical turning point for me? That you could sweep in and _fix_ me; like I didn’t have this realization when I was getting tested for HIV or when I was reporting it to the college or when I was transferred to be hidden away like a weeping sore?”

Aaron reeled. The room felt too small, too humid, the window not letting in enough air. Above them, the exhaust fan chugged grimly on, narrating this moment. Outside, the apartment was as silent as though they were alone, despite there being four other people there. Probably listening, in sedate horror. “You reported it?” he repeated vacuously, because that. Didn’t… make sense. It didn’t tie with the narrative he’d unconsciously convinced himself of, that Spencer had kept this to himself and let it destroy him. Because no one… no one would _let_ this happen.

Would they?

A slow nod. “Yes,” Spencer replied, his voice absent of any emotion. “There was never a police report and I obscured what physical evidence I could before I did so. The college said they’d handle it ‘in-house’. And while they were handling it, it happened again. So, they threw me out like I was… trash. The unwanted stepchild. And here I am, and here he is, nothing gained and everything lost.”

Aaron pulled in a breath that fought him, something to stall the whirling space. And one more. And focused on the words. “I never thought I could sweep in and ‘fix’ this,” he said suddenly, clicking to that. “And you don’t believe I thought that either. Spencer, this… isn’t something either of us can fix. Or change. Or even move on from, alone. I can’t help you through this alone. Nor can Ethan or Elle or your mom—”

“Mom doesn’t know,” Spencer cut in, and Aaron wasn’t surprised. “I… haven’t seen her in years. Or spoken to her. Her doctor is our proxy. She’s… too smart. I can’t let this hurt her. Do you know how much it would destroy her to know she let me go away and _that_ happened?”

Aaron winced. He suspected that Spencer did too, as his words settled, so he didn’t say the obvious, _yes_. “Okay,” he said, and dug his nails through his jeans for something to focus on. “Rehab—”

“No.” Adamant, and with the stubborn line to his mouth and jaw that meant he wouldn’t be shifted. “My career will never recover.”

“Fine. Therapy.”

Spencer’s mouth slipped open, the line gone. “No.” But he wavered.

He wavered, and Aaron struck. Slipped forward, knees on the cold, gritty tiles, and took his boyfriend’s hands in his. Leaned forward, head tilted back, and something that was tight and wound into a ball of hurting in his chest eased so very slightly as Spencer accepted the wordless plea and moved down to brush their mouths together. Once, tentatively. And then again, desperate this time, as they both felt the other’s pain. _“Please_.”

And Spencer nodded, sluggishly. “Okay,” he mumbled into Aaron’s mouth. “But… don’t make me go alone. I… can’t.”

“Deal.”

 

* * *

 

“You’re evasive, Spencer. It’s going to be difficult to make progress if you don’t allow us to help you.”

Aaron wasn’t entirely sure he was a fan of therapy. The bleach-clean room was a weird trip back to some half-forgotten memory of facing a similar polite-faced professional across a desk artfully arranged to toe the line between ‘I’m a real person, totally trustworthy’ and ‘I’m completely professional with no outside motivations.’ Fortunately, he mostly just seemed to be here to sit slightly off-side twiddling his thumbs and observing the battle of wills Spencer had immediately engaged in. He was pretty sure, since this was their third therapist and the only one who seemed to relish the challenge of having someone undoubtedly smarter than them sitting mulishly in the chair, that the therapists felt about the same as he did.

“You’re going to recommend cognitive behavioural therapy as a broad intervention to treat the PTSD that my maladaptive responses are stemming from,” Spencer said monotonously, picking at a thread on his shirt. “You do understand that I am an addict throughout which the re-experiencing of symptoms will cause reoccurring hyper-arousal, leading to avoidance behaviours such as _drug use_ , leading to further re-experiencing of symptoms. You’re proposing a recursive strategy of treatment.”

“And you’re already practising avoidant strategies because you _know_ that what I’m proposing will include imaginal exposure. Is your withdrawal from that outlook because you’re aware that this will include refacing your trauma, or is it because you genuinely believe that this approach is inappropriate to your case?” The therapist leaned back, tilting his head to study Spencer carefully. Aaron was… almost certain none of his therapy sessions had been this antagonistic. He felt like he was watching a violent tennis match, head snapping from one to the other as they spoke.

At least Spencer was actually _talking_ to this guy, though.

“Should I… go?” he asked, because he was feeling a little bit like he was intruding on something private, and maybe… if the therapist wanted Spencer to _talk_ about what had happened, maybe it would be easier if he was—

“No!” Spencer snapped, jerking around to face him, and for the first time in three weeks, there was panic on his normally blank expression. The therapist studied that, took a note. His pen scratched the notepad accusingly, and Aaron knew what it would say. _Co-dependant._

Aaron still stayed. And the next time.

They were all the same.

And time began to grind on, but they were stalled. Weeks of being trapped in the bleach-white room with Spencer on one end, the therapist patiently waiting on the other, and a yawning gulf between them. Aaron couldn’t help but wonder what would happen when Spencer finally risked that void.

 

* * *

 

Aaron had thought rock-bottom was _that_ night. It couldn’t get worse. That there was _nothing_ worse.

He’d been so, so wrong. Rock-bottom wasn’t a fatal catastrophic impact. It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t huge. It was a slow slide into a pattern of misery that was leisurely enough in its approach that none of them saw it coming until they were so deep they couldn’t think to know the danger.

They went to therapy. Spencer seemed fine after, until within a few days he’d rock up on Aaron’s doorstep silent and high, refusing to speak to anyone. The first it had happened Aaron hadn’t said a word, just put him to bed and slept on the floor. After that, they fought, and he suspected every single time that this was what Spencer absolutely intended. Every fight seemed gleeful, every one more cutting than the last. Aaron got used to the knock at his door, the quiet expectation that rippled through the apartment. And months dragged like this. Up again. Down. Looping around endlessly until Aaron was sick and dizzy, tumbled around in the wake with no idea of how to extract them.

College started. A distraction. An attempt at a distraction. But every case was this one, every law was somehow related, and no matter how many times he read the papers he was assigned or pored over his lecture notes, his brain circled back like a hunting cat looking for that knock.

He missed his first assignment. Failed the supplementary one.

“You alright?” Simon asked one day, and Aaron looked up from his books and blinked to see the man holding a catalogue with bats decorating the front. October? _How?_ “You don’t look great.”

“Just tired,” he mumbled, and sent a hasty text. _Want to do something for Halloween? See if we can do better than last year’s costumes._ Did they do anything for Spencer’s birthday? They must have, he was twenty-one this year, surely they’d… done _something_. Right? He couldn’t remember.

A reply bounced in nine hours later, startling Aaron from a half-dozing wakefulness, his head on his book. _Horror movie night? S. R._

It was something.

It beeped again. _Ask if Simon and Kate want to come too. I’ll ask Ethan. S.R._

He dropped his head again.

It was nothing.

They fucked once. Screwed around a few other times. But the sex was perfunctory, distant. Watching a movie together and Spencer reaching into his pants, getting him off during a slow, boring scene without saying a word. Aaron had shivered through the climax and kissed him, hungry for something more. Ended up taking him in his mouth and missing the rest of the movie as he tried to make it something special. The next was a fumble of hands and bodies one night when things almost seemed normal. Sliding together, naked with their mouths finding each other over and over, and Aaron felt loved and somehow more as Spencer had bit down on his shoulder and gasped his name.

The last time, he hadn’t been in the mood but he’d let Spencer fuck him anyway, without even a minute flicker of interest. Spencer had frowned, shaken himself from his boneless contentment, and tried to coax him into a tentative blowjob. Thirty minutes later, Aaron had murmured an excuse, still soft despite Spencer doing his goddamn best, and muttered some lie about being tired. And Spencer had withdrawn, face blank.

They didn’t try again.

“What’s this?” Spencer asked weeks later, stopping his restless pacing around the room and picking up the assignment Aaron had gotten back and quickly shoved onto his desk to forget about. “Aaron, this is a fail grade?”

Aaron ignored him, his back to the room, because Spencer was _high_ and pretending Aaron didn’t know. As if it wasn’t immediately obvious.

The bed dipped, bringing with the scent of cologne and Spencer, a nose brushing his neck. And there was the clue. He didn’t do the awful parody of seduction when he was wasted anymore, but it was the only time he could bear to be close to Aaron. The only time the distance between them closed.

And it was when Aaron couldn’t look at him.

“Hey, come here,” Spencer murmured, trying to hug him. Aaron was stiff and rigid, unyielding to his grasp. “Aaron, talk to me. Why didn’t you tell me you were struggling with it? I could have tutored you.”

“Please stop touching me,” Aaron replied, and closed his eyes. “Try again when you’re sober.”

Spencer sighed and slipped away, the door closing behind him.

He didn’t come back after that.

Aaron’s birthday was a blur. He spent it at home, locked in his room, trying to cram for finals he wasn’t sure he’d be allowed to even sit. His phone beeped and he groaned, shoved away from the desk, just _knowing_ it was going to be something he couldn’t walk away from.

**From Greenaway: Spencer didn’t show up to court today.**

What? Aaron stared at the phone, blinking stupidly. _Court?_

**To Greenaway: What? What court? When?!**

**From Greenaway: Jesus Hotchner. Have you not picked up a fucking newspaper in four months??**

He did then. Snagged Simon’s laptop, found exactly what he was looking for. Stared at it blankly for a good twelve minutes, before resigning himself to a long night.

“Good luck,” Ethan said, as soon as he opened the door to find Aaron standing there. “I’ve had none.” He walked away, tossing back a sharp, “He _is_ sober though. He doesn’t shoot up on court weeks.”

“Glad to know I’m the last to fucking find out,” Aaron muttered, trying Spencer’s door. Locked. “Let me in, Spence. What the hell? You’ve been in _court_?”

Muffled movement. Aaron thumped his head into the wood, scrunching his eyes shut, fighting back the burning, gut-dropping feeling that they’d hurtled past the point where this was fixable. “You’re not coming,” Spencer called through the wood, his voice thin. “I didn’t tell you because you’d want to be there and you _can’t_ be. They’ll see you. They didn’t get everyone when they raided it. Now, go away.”

“Nope,” Aaron said firmly, and slid down the wood until his ass hit the floor. Back to the door, textbook resting on his knees, he settled in and ignored the strange look Ethan shot his way. “You didn’t go today.”

“I wasn’t on the stand. I wasn’t needed. Elle’s just checking up on me. Leave now, please.”

“Nope.” Aaron cracked open the textbook, eyes glazing on the first passage. “You have to open the door eventually.”

“If we’re scolding,” Ethan added, getting another mug down from the cupboard and banging the kettle onto the range, “he hasn’t been going to college either.”

The door wrenched open and Spencer appeared, clothes rumpled from being slept in and eyes red-ringed. “Get in,” he snapped, stepping back and slamming the door behind Aaron when he rolled back and awkwardly inside before stumbling to his feet. “That’s not my fault.” Aaron waited. The room was closed in, scented strongly with sweat and the stale smell of being sealed for far too long with a living being inside. “He’s guest lecturing a course this semester,” Spencer said finally, squeezing his eyes shut, and whatever anger was brimming trickled away. They didn’t have the energy to fight when Spencer was sober, anyway. And neither needed to clarify who _he_ was. “He’s teaching a course. It’s not unusual, Aaron. He’s the top in his field, my field… it’s why I ended up here… I can’t. Don’t make me face that.”

There was nothing to say to that. Nothing Aaron could do to make it hurt less.

Aaron looked down at his textbook, lost for words. “Want to help me study?” he asked finally, running his thumb over the corner and wincing as he got a papercut in return for his trouble. “Finals soon…” Spencer nodded, looking around his room. “Maybe in the living room… maybe after you’ve showered.” A weak smile. Aaron opened the door.

Ethan looked up, got down one more mug, and none of them mentioned it.

It was a reprieve, but not much of one.

 

* * *

 

“So, my lovely friends and champions,” Simon announced suddenly one night over dinner, digging into his flake with relish. The fish crumbled at the onslaught, avoiding his attempts to get it into his mouth. “Few things. I’m leaving my position at the college. They say a change is as good as a holiday, you know. Won’t really affect you guys, I’ll still be your handsome and slightly slummy overlord.”

Kate paused, peas rolling from her fork, face scrunched. “But… you _love_ your job?” she said, confused. Aaron put his cutlery down, stomach suddenly too tight to fathom eating. Remembered walking in on a fast-paced and _furiously_ whispered conversation Simon was having on the phone months before.

“I love other things more. Like a better dental plan. Actual parking. No emails at four a.m. from students saying ‘ayyyye proffy, give us an extension on that thing due last semester’.”

“No one actually sends emails like that,” Kate replied, but Aaron wasn’t listening to them bicker anymore. He was watching the slight downturn of Simon’s mouth, his fingers rapping on the table, the expensive shirt he was wearing… Two months before, he’d withdrawn money from the inheritance account he and Sean shared from their father to pay for the therapy sessions, only to be told they were already paid in full.

He’d assumed.

“You took a job with your dad,” he said suddenly, stalling the argument. Simon looked at him. Nodded. “You hate your dad. You hate his company.”

“Yes,” Simon said softly, “but sometimes we have to do things we hate. I’m contracted for a year, just a year, Aaron. I’ve already signed it. It’s done.”

Aaron examined that statement, pulled it apart. Felt a little bit like Spencer over-analysing, until it clicked and he swore, shoving his chair back. “You paid for the therapy,” he snapped, anger thrumming through his veins. “I thought it was _Ethan._ ”

Simon snorted. “Ethan? The man has about eight bucks to rub together at any one time,” he said, rolling his eyes. “And don’t go getting uppity. You know Spencer’s finances are tied up at the moment until the court case is over, and I know you were pulling from what you got from your dad. They would have given me the money whether I took the position or not—not everything is about you, mate.”

Aaron was frozen. “I can’t pay that much money back,” he stammered. “Simon, I don’t…”

“Wasn’t a loan, Hotchner,” Simon responded, putting his own fork down. “I’m not expecting it back. It’s for _both_ of you, mind you. Not just Squeak. When you’re a hotshot lawyer, you can represent me against the slew of legal troubles I’m sure to tumble into, okay?”

But the guilt was relentless. Appetite gone, Aaron grabbed his keys, his wallet, slammed from the apartment and drove until he reached an uncertain destination.

Spencer’s college. Aaron stared. Why was he here?

_He’s teaching a course. It’s not unusual, Aaron. He’s the top in his field, my field… it’s why I ended up here…_

Enough. This had to end. Something had to give. This endless whirlwind of anger and hurt and oblivion was sucking every last one of them down… Aaron had to end it.

“Could you direct me to Dr. Connors office?” he asked the woman at the front desk, holding up a sheaf of paperwork from his car and giving her his best smile. “I have a paper he requested, but I only just got off work… I know it’s late…”

_Fate fucking smiles on me_ , he thought grimly as she assured him, _yes, he usually keeps late hours. He’s likely still there—give me a moment and I’ll get you the details._

The walk there was just as distant. As was knocking on the door, stepping inside and leaning back against the open side of it. He knew what he was here for.

“Hello,” said the man, smiling kindly from behind his desk. The desk itself was neat, everything aligned perfectly, even the stack of papers he was currently working on. Spencer would have loved that. Kid was a freak for parallel lines. Aaron examined then, and then slid his gaze up the man himself, shivering as his gaze skipped over a framed photo of a smiling little girl holding a stuffed giraffe. “Can I help you? I don’t recall asking for any papers, but then again, I’d forget my head if it wasn’t firmly attached. Or so I’m assured.” He chuckled, a warm sound, and made a tapping motion at his throat. Aaron smiled.

“My name is Aaron Hotchner,” he said quietly, the sound of his voice bringing everything to a very hushed kind of close. “I think you know that name.”

The chair creaked as Connors leaned back in it, his eyes widening. Dark eyes. He coughed, removed his reading glasses, rubbing them on his shirt before pushing them back on. He, Aaron noted, used two fingers on the bridge to nudge them up his nose. Just like Spencer did. The same cautious half-smile aimed at Aaron, and then cutting across to the bookshelf before snapping back. Aaron followed that gaze and went cold as he found himself looking at a face from his halcyon memories. He wondered, absently, if the professor saw the coldness when he looked back at him.

“Yes,” Connors said finally, pressing his knuckles into his chin in a nervous tic. “Yes, I know that name. Is this about Spencer?”

Aaron closed the door.


	40. Regret

The door shut and Connors shot upright, his hand twitching towards his phone. Aaron didn’t move, and the hand paused. Lowered. Connors lifted his chin, staring Aaron down.

“How is he?” he asked finally, breaking the waiting silence, and Aaron felt his lips curl despite not feeling much of anything in that moment. “Spencer, I mean. I meant to catch up with him after his award… but I’m afraid he snuck away early.”

The air tasted like copper. Aaron discerned it, huffed it out. Dug his nails into his palms, feeling them leave behind crescent shapes in the skin. “You bastard,” he said finally, watching Connors reel back. “You sick fucking bastard. You genuinely believe the bullshit you fed him, don’t you?”

The copper tang leeched into the room, driving him further in. Connors, to his credit, didn’t move a muscle despite the fact that Aaron was sure he was displaying aggressive body language.

“I’m not sure what Spencer has told you,” Connors replied calmly, folding those hands together in front of his torso. Aaron examined them. Bony hands, long fingers. He imagined them wrapped over a slim shoulder, biting in, pushing down. Made a rough noise deep in his chest that resounded dangerously through the room. “He _is_ mistaken. We had a disagreement, the two of us, regarding our relationship—”

“Relationship,” Aaron repeated monotonously. “He was _fifteen_.”

Connors arched an eyebrow. “Indeed,” he said, his voice cool. “As were you, were you not, and you seemed _adamant_ that you were in love with him, from what I read. Is it impossible that he, mistakenly, felt the same about me?” The words were heavy and Aaron felt like he was going to buckle under the weight of them. Dumbfounded, he stood mute as the man relentlessly continued. “Spencer _did_ believe himself to be in love with me. I, as his elder, discouraged the relationship. He pushed it. When I refer to relationship, I do mean our professional one as student and teacher. It was Spencer’s misconceptions that brought that to a halt—he propositioned me, I made the motion to remove myself as his mentor, and he quite overreacted. Everything that followed was the delusions of a lonely and inventive boy with no regard for how his stories would impact my career and my family.”

Connors was breathing heavily, his face flushed, and Aaron stared. Hated.

“I’m sorry,” Connors said finally, his eyes snapping shut for a moment. “Aaron… I admit, I allowed him closer than I should have. Almost encouraged his obsession. It’s not unusual for people who find intelligence to be an attractive quality to find themselves envisioning fantasies about their teachers. I was tasked with introducing Spencer to college life, at an age where he couldn’t possibly assimilate into it. This left him an outsider, isolated. Miserable. To alleviate that, I allowed him to assist me with my research, my work, even introduced him to my family.” He nodded to the picture of his daughter. “Alice adored him. He would babysit her when my wife and I went out. Do you really think I would expose my daughter to a boy I was treating in such a manner as he claims?”

“I think you’re a fucking liar,” Aaron said, and his voice was a growl. “I _know_ Spencer. More than you ever did. You want to know what I believe?” Connors didn’t answer, just stared at him, waiting. Letting the tension stretch, Aaron met that gaze without flinching. Let him simmer. Let him feel _fear_. “I think you raped him,” Aaron said in a low voice that carried. “I think you convinced him that you were in love with him and that you _fucked_ with his head endlessly for two whole years until he didn’t know what was right or wrong anymore. And I think you used _me_ to do it, didn’t you?” He’d stopped on his way out the door of his apartment; some part of him had known where he was going when it found the paper folded in his pocket. He took it out and threw it to the desk, waiting until Connors carefully unfolded it and scanned the panicked, rushed handwriting. The robotic letter Spencer had sent, that Aaron had read over and over and over since that day until every word was burned into his mind. “You dictated that to him because you realized what we had wasn’t a one-sided crush. You realized I cared about him just as much as he cared about me and that made you _furious_. Were you angry, Ross? Were you?”

Connors swallowed, his fingers tracing the paper. Aaron stepped forward once, twice, again, bracing his hands against the wood of the desk and leaving sweaty fingerprints on the oak as he continued relentlessly: “How angry? I bet it _haunted_ you. I think he came home from my house and because you were the only person he trusted, he came to you about what happened between us. And he told you and you were _burning_ with jealously. So you took the most fundamental part of his personality—his pathological need to make the people around him _happy_ —and you used it to cut him down. To make him so small and so _alone_ that he stuck even closer to you. But that wasn’t enough for you, was it?”

“Stop this, now.” Connors lunged around the desk, going for the door. Aaron blocked him. Shoved him back. Felt a surge of power when the man’s thigh thudded against his desk. “Get out of my way,” Connors snarled, but Aaron wasn’t done.

“You couldn’t stop thinking about me and him,” he continued, wondering distantly who was talking, because the calm, firm voice wasn’t one he thought he was currently capable of. “And you invited him over. Gave him a drink. What did you put in the drink, Ross? Rohypnol? Keratin? A cocktail of everything you thought would make him want you, that would make him look at you like he looked at me? And you waited until he was _helpless_ and then you raped him, Ross, you didn’t _push him away_ and you didn’t do anything so kind as _make love_ or whatever the fuck you’ve convinced yourself you did. He didn’t initiate. He wasn’t even conscious, was he?” Connors was backing away, stumbling, his face ashen now. His shoulder bumped the bookshelf. The photo of Spencer rocked, toppled. Cracked on the ground between them, and Aaron picked it up and held on tight, feeling the broken glass bite into his fingertips. “I’m curious, when did you realize how much you’d messed up? Was it when you were done and you realized he wasn’t awake? Was he still breathing, Ross? How bad did you fuck him up?”

“He was con—” Connors snapped, and silence fell. Aaron took those hasty words and huddled them close, almost tasted them. Warm and gluey and flavoured with blood, just like the tacky tips of his fingers on the photo frame. “You need to leave. Now. I’m calling security.”

“I’m leaving,” Aaron assured him, the emptiness inside him finally settling into a calm nothing disregard. His emotions couldn’t cripple him if he didn’t allow himself to feel them. “I just want to assert something first.” He looked at the photo of Alice. “You’re going to think of what you did to him every time you look at her,” he murmured. “It must haunt you every day how much she looks like him, mustn’t it? I wonder if anyone will hurt her like you did him—”

“Is that a threat?” Now, Connors looked dangerous. Fists bunching. The first human trait he’d shown. It pleased Aaron.

“No,” he said. “But this is. I’m studying to be a lawyer. I’m going to be a _fantastic_ lawyer, because of scumbags like you. And you, you’re going to fuck up again one day, Ross. You’re going to hurt another boy, another child, and I’m going to _know_. And when you walk into the courtroom, so cocky and self-assured that everyone will believe you because you have a beautiful daughter and a spotless record, I’m going to be smiling from the counsel table. I will destroy you. And I can’t wait.”

He turned and walked out without waiting for an answer. Taking the photo, he left behind a promise in its stead. No matter how long it took, he would be the end of Dr. Ross Connors.

 

* * *

 

Spencer answered the door in his pyjamas, sleepy-eyed and with his hair clumped up in ragged spikes. “M’aron?” he yawned, blinking. “Was asleep. It’s la—”

Aaron lurched forward and crashed against him, found his lips. Kissed him like never before, like this was their last time, their first time, and every time in between all rolled into one. They stumbled back, the door clicking shut, Spencer’s shoulder smacking the wall. Aaron wrapped himself around the other man, desperate, one hand braced on the wallpaper and the other tangled through that wild hair. They kissed, frantic, all mouths and teeth and desperate, needy pressure. Spencer groaned, arched into him, pulled away panting.

“What was that about?” he breathed, eyes huge and chest heaving. His hand came up between them, flickered against Aaron’s chest. Testing his heartrate. Aaron knew what came next, his skin shivering into goosebumps under the trail of fingers as they worked up to his throat, his pulse. Intimate. Learned.

“I love you,” Aaron said intently, leaning close and tucking their noses together so the words left his lips and tumbled straight against Spencer’s skin. “I love you so much I think sometimes I’ve gone a little mad with it. I’ve never _not_ loved you, even before we’d met the first time. Remember the quarry? When we stood on the fence in the storm and you reached for me? _That_ was when I knew it, Spencer. That moment. That moment was _everything_. Whatever part of me I give to other people when I fall in love with them, I gave it all to you that day.”

Spencer stared, mouth almost open, expression almost glazed. “Whu—what?” he stammered, flushing as Aaron’s watched. Pupils diluted gently, normally. Sober. He was sober. Good, because Aaron planned on taking him to bed and showing him _exactly_ how much he loved him, over and over and over again if that was what it took. Ross Connors would not break them. His memory wouldn’t take this from them.

“Come to bed with me,” he whispered, absolutely set on his path. He groaned at the idea, feeling it work its way through his body in a lightning rush of heat. Nuzzling closer, Spencer let his head roll back, thumping against the wall, and he mouthed at that neck, that throat, pressed his tongue against the pulse that was hammering like they were running a race. Maybe they were. This was them, saving themselves. “Let me take you apart. Let me show you everything. Please, love, please. I can’t _bear_ you pushing me away, not anymore, please, I just need _you_.”

“Aaron,” Spencer moaned, half-aroused because Aaron was rolling his hips forward, half-miserable because this moment was heavy and pointed. “What are you asking? Because it’s not just sex.”

Aaron shook his head, hair flicking into his eyes with the ragged movement. “I’m asking you to stop _this_ ,” he whispered, huddling close and small, the hand on the wall curling and leaving a bloodied mark on the wallpaper. Spencer glanced at it, looked away, jerked back. His eyes shot open, the arousal half-tenting his thin pants softening with his panic. Aaron let him grab his hand, agile fingers gently uncurling his fingers to examine the thin slices. “Stop pushing me away, stop trying to _end_ us,” he finished weakly.

“What did you do?” Spencer asked, sliding out from in front of him and moving to the sink, finding antiseptic in the cupboard underneath and motioning Aaron over to him. Aaron let him; let him sit at the kitchen chair and clean the blood away, and then lowered himself carefully over the other man’s lap and straddled him, ignoring the soft protest at his weight. Leaned his head on his shoulder, felt arms curled around his back and fingers work at his spine.

“Why are you doing this?” Aaron mumbled into the cotton of his shoulder. Outside, cold air pushed in. One more year coming to a steady close. “Why are you hurting me like this when you know I _need_ you.”

Spencer sighed under him, shifting his body. Despite the miserable tension between them, despite Aaron’s frantic last-ditch attempt to convince Spencer how much he loved him, he was hard and getting harder as Aaron rolled his hips down against him. “I’m not doing it _to_ you,” Spencer said finally, running one hand up Aaron’s back and tugging gently at his hair, tipping his head up. Leaning forward to nip at his neck, using just the right amount of pressure to draw a groan from Aaron’s chest. “I’m doing it for you, Aaron. This… me… I’m not good for you.”

Aaron pulled away, stood. Gripped his hands in his and walked him back to the bedroom in silence. They tumbled onto the bed, rolling into each other, shedding clothes and reservations as they went. Not until they were naked and aroused and moving together did he speak again. “Don’t protect me,” he said with a cocky half-smile. “I don’t need it. I just need you.” The lube was in his hands, his fingers sticky. He hesitated. Smiled again. Inched closer to his boyfriend and made him watch as he reached down his own body. “I trust you.”

Spencer’s eyes darkened instantly as he clicked. Benefits of having a sometimes-clever boyfriend.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice deep with hungry interest.

“Absolutely,” Aaron assured him, because no matter what happened, they’d always have this. He’d always have this. Even if they stopped being them, reached the split that was looming ever closer no matter how much he pushed it away, and returned to being two separate lives, Aaron would always have this moment. Selfish, maybe, but it couldn’t be another.

Moving to roll over what felt like minutes later, but was actually almost an hour of slow burn tedious undoing, Spencer stopped him. Aaron felt open, incomplete, warm all over and strange, like his skin wasn’t quite on properly. Spencer’s eyes were hot, black and huge, his mouth pink all over from where he’d been nipping at it, from where Aaron had been kissing it.

“No,” Spencer murmured, sliding his sticky fingers under Aaron’s leg and easing it up, easing it along his thigh, until Aaron was more or less on his lap. “Put the pillow behind your back, like that. Lean against the wall. Look at me.” There was a fierce intensity in his voice. His tone warm, honeyed, and he might not have returned the sentiment earlier when Aaron had admitted how completely gone for him he was, but Aaron knew in that moment that he felt the same. “Don’t look away, Aaron. I want to see this.”

And it was different from the first time they’d tried this. So goddamn different. Aaron wasn’t pushing his face into the mattress, gritting his teeth against the pain. They weren’t drunk. The pain was the same. The same pushing, blunt pressure that eased him up and worked him open. The same anxious whine of fear that spilled from his mouth, the same nervous sensation that he was being hurt. But, different, because this time Spencer held his hand tightly, their fingers wound together and palms sweaty and firm. Different, because the only time they broke away from looking at each other was to kiss, just as sweaty, just as shaken. Different, because as the pain eased and Aaron eased with it, sinking down slowly onto his boyfriend’s lap and curling against him with a satisfied _oh_ as he realized it _was_ less. Spencer moaned like he was fucking breaking and choked out something that was almost, _almost_ , _I love…_

But he couldn’t, because Spencer Reid had never kept something for himself at the expense of others, and Aaron knew this. Closed his eyes against the burning knowledge, rolling his hips down, pressing his face against his boyfriend’s bare chest and thanking the sweat for obscuring any dampness from his eyes.

Because this was an end, unstoppably so.

“I know,” he breathed, and kissed the heartbeat hammering below the thin ribs. Moved closer, used his hand to lift Spencer’s arm to his mouth. Kissed the track-marks, the bruised reminders of their pain. “I know, love, I know. You don’t need to say it.”

“I’m sorry,” gasped Spencer, and Aaron felt his heart skip. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry…”

Aaron arched up, straightened, and so he watched as Spencer came with a whine and a frantic glance into Aaron’s eyes, feeling the pulse of it. Memorised it, even as he sluggishly followed eventually, his own orgasm coaxed and unfulfilled and tinged with resignation.

“I’m never going to not love you,” he said, when they were done and slumped together in a jumble of arms and legs and broken hearts. “You know that, don’t you?”

Spencer didn’t answer, just curled into a tighter ball so Aaron couldn’t see him crying.

 

* * *

 

“I’d like to speak to Aaron alone today,” the therapist said, and Spencer left without a word. Aaron felt, for a moment, as though he’d unwittingly walked into a trap set for him without his knowledge. Nervously hunched in his chair, fingers tapping at the fabric of the arm, he waited for it to close snapping jaws around him. “Do you know why I’ve asked to speak to you?” the therapist—he should stop calling him _the therapist_ at this point, since they seemed to be in this for the long run—said, as soon as the door swung shut.

“About Spencer?” Aaron asked, and shuddered at _what_ the man could be planning to ask him. It must be terrible if… he shook that away.

And John smiled sadly, leaning forward onto the desk. “No, Aaron,” he said quietly. “We’ve spent months talking about Spencer, despite both of us attempting to draw you into the sessions. I want to talk about _you_ and how you’re coping. You do matter as well, you know.”

Silence. Aaron was stunned.

“Me?” he squeaked, coughing to clear his throat. That was a tone way more suited to Spencer than him, and sounded odd emitting from his throat. “I mean, I’m fine? Spencer needs to get better more than I do. I’m just here to support him.”

John reached into his desk, drawing forth a notebook that was familiar. Not his. When he opened it and slid it across the desk, it was filled with scratchy handwriting that Aaron knew as intimately as he knew his own. “I’m sharing this with Spencer’s full permission,” John explained, leaning back. “He expressed a desire to be absent for this, however. Believed it would be in your best interest to have the focus entirely upon you, where you couldn’t divert it back to him. I agree, to an extent.” Aaron didn’t answer. He was too busy reading, his mind unravelling with the shock of the words on the page. The writing was jagged, sometimes. Harsh and larger than life, written in long slashing strikes that tore savagely the page. In other places, it was neat and clinical. Almost like the man writing it was of two halves.

Sober, and high. The divide was visible and frightening.

It took him a beat longer to realize what he was reading. It wasn’t about Spencer; very _little_ of it even mentioned Spencer at all, unless he flipped back to June and the months surrounding the first relapse. As time had struggled it, the notebook’s focus had turned to…

Aaron.

He flicked through, reading quickly, and there was a story told on these scratchy pages. His story.

It wasn’t one he’d been at all aware of.

> _07/21/2002 – Isolated episode – third wk no interest in hobbies [jogging, gym?] -suggest reduced energy. Invite out to dinner and test appetite [note: did so—diminished appetite]. Mood seems normal. Mild in severity and functional impairment_

He flipped a chunk of pages.

> _09/01/2002 – significant weight change (5%+) need to get him engaged with therapy sessions. How? Visible psychomotor agitation, hyperarousal in stressful conditions. Concentration and cognitive abilities hugely impacted—find excuse to see course work_
> 
> _Excessive inappropriate guilt – why won’t he **listen** to me?? It’s not his FAULT. _
> 
> _Changes in sleep, attempt to coax him to bed earlier. Ineffective, he stays awake. When he does sleep, shows symptoms of hypersomnia._

The writing changed abruptly, turned scratchy and panicky. Aaron read it and felt sick. _I’m doing this, my impact upon his life in increasingly destructive and I don’t know how to stop I don’t know how to reduce this impact, soften it. Withdrawal hurts him, my presence hurts him, I cant switch it off I cant change it—_ He turned to the back, almost reactionary. Just to stop seeing the rambling interspersed with calculations that were complex and confused and meant nothing to him. There was a chart scrawled out on the final page, notes and symbols in different coloured pens etched into it over a period of months. It condensed the rest.

> **Functional Domain – Impairment Level accord. DSM-IV**
> 
> _Family relationships – quiet, negative, oppositional **Moderate Impairment**_
> 
> _School & Academics – Failing performance, missing classes, high stress **Severe Impairment**_
> 
> _Peer relationships – decreased socializing or extracurricular activities **Moderate Impairment**_
> 
> _Stress Level, Anxiety – withholds feelings, won’t talk **Severe Impairment**_
> 
> _Suicidal Ideation - ????_

The book scraped on the table as he pushed it away. “This isn’t, that’s not…” he stammered, head thumping. The therapist laid his hand on it, his eyes locked on Aaron. “I’m not depressed. I’m not. I’m just… helping him.”

John didn’t really sigh, but his exhale was slightly heavier, his eyes almost downcast, his mouth almost sad. His professional mask hiding genuine sorrow. “Are you?” he asked quietly, and Aaron shattered.

 

* * *

 

It was a mistake. A stupid mistake.

“Right you dozy lot, we’re going out,” Simon had declared, as Aaron and Spencer had slunk into the apartment, still raw from therapy. Neither of them had talked about it yet. They’d just looked at each other, looked away. Driven in silence. Aaron was still spinning, his mind crashing against those two words over and over and over again. “We’re four days from _Christmas_ , and so that means we’re doing something jolly before Kate buggers off home and I bugger off somewhere hotter than this place.”

“I don’t really want to…” Aaron had mumbled, right before looking once more at Spencer and remembering the scratched out _decreased socializing_. He could fix this still. “Where do you want to go?”

Spencer eyed him and said nothing.

“Well, that’s a surprise,” Simon said, and Aaron could see Kate smirking. “Squeak, head your ass home and get changed. Ethan’s coming too. Meet back here in two hours, max.”

Aaron let himself be dragged along in his friends’ wake. Found himself having dinner sandwiched between Spencer and Elle, despite Spencer’s raised eyebrow at the sight of the woman.

“Should you be here?” he asked, leaning around Aaron to talk to her. He seemed… better. Than he had when they’d left their session. Brighter, less withdrawn. His hand rested easily on Aaron’s thigh. It was a relief; some notable proof that this small step forward was the beginning of many more. “Isn’t this going to look odd, you having dinner with a witness?”

“She’s here with me,” Ethan said casually, bumping her with his shoulder, and Elle laughed in response.

“Don’t worry about it, Reid,” she said cheerfully. “We’ve got another month, tops, and those bastards are done for. It’s all formalities now.” All formalities. Aaron looked down at his steak and felt a grin slip onto his face, splitting the hazy nothing that was his everything now. Moving forward. The court case over, Spencer could relax, semester was over so the bastard would be gone from his college… sure, Aaron had failed the semester, but he could retake some classes. He’d withdrawn from most under advice from his course counsellor, so there were no _actual_ fails on his records.

They could fix this.

“Okay, second part of the evening,” Simon announcing, flicking a bean across the table at Ethan. “Tell them, Fin—Ethan.” Ethan had shot him a deadly glare, Simon immediately pulling the most butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth expression he could.

“Surprised you two nerds didn’t know already,” Ethan drawled lazily, leaning back in his seat with his face curling into a slow smile. “Second Lord of the Rings movie is premiering tonight. We’ve got tickets. Call it a group Christmas present to you both.”

“Merry Christmas!” chimed in the others, even Elle. Aaron stared, dumbfounded, as tickets were procured and tossed onto the centre of the table among the glasses. Spencer was a rigid line of shock next to him, his fingers tightening around Aaron’s thigh. Sneaking his hand down, Aaron slipped his hand over his partner’s, feeling his smile widen.

Spencer pulled his hand away. “This is wonderful, truly,” he said, and Aaron looked up at him, confused. “But we have to decline.”

“What?” Aaron blurted out. “Of course we want to go, Spencer?”

Spencer shook his head adamantly, mouth turning stubborn. “You can,” he said in a voice that was probably supposed to be a whisper, but completely failed to be so. The table was silent, stunned, their friends exchanging nervous looks. Kate’s new date was completely focused on shredding a napkin, his ears glowing red as they all sensed the tension building. “I’m not. Sorry, but I’m going home.” He stood, edging out from his seat and fumbling for his wallet. “My share of the cheque.”

Aaron stood as well, the warm knowledge that things were turning okay again washing out of him with a surge of icy cold. “Hey, wait,” he called, catching his knee in the tablecloth and almost pulling the lot off. Elle caught it, half-rising in her seat. “You’re not even going to say _why_?” He was half-furious, half-desperate; the notes Spencer had been taking on him dancing in his mind. _He_ was making an effort here, and Spencer was shooting him down. What the fuck? Tempering it all was the chilling thought that maybe Spencer had other plans. Plans that involved something a lot more tempting than Aaron’s company.

“Hey, that’s fine,” Simon was soothing, trying to be the mediator. Spencer was silent, watching them with his torso half turned to the exit. “Look, we’ll head back to our place instead. Matrix marathon, anyone?”

“No.” Spencer’s voice was uneven. He was _upset_. Aaron tried to move after him, but he dodged away. “I just want to go home.”

“Spence, you’re being a dick,” Aaron hissed, feeling his face flush. People were staring, and, normally he wouldn’t give a shit, but their friends’ faces were falling as well. Anticipating another downward spiral, no doubt. Ethan was standing, adding his money to the table. Elle followed him. Kate’s head was in her hands. “Just sit back down. We’ll talk this over and if you want, me and you will just go home.”

“Stop being _thick_ ,” Spencer snarled, shaking away Aaron’s comforting touch to his arm. “I’m not avoiding _them_ , Aaron. I don’t want to go home with you. I want to go home _alone_. Now, let me!” He left without another word, turning on his heel and striding out. Ethan swore.

“Give him a moment,” Aaron rambled frantically, the second-chance he’d been clinging to slipping from his clumsy fingers. “I’ll talk to him.” He raced after his partner, dodging tables and curious glares and bursting out into the frigid night, his jacket hanging inside on his chair still. Spencer was walking away up the street, head bowed to the wind and hands shoved deep into his coat pocket. Aaron thudded after, calling his name, seeing him pause.

“Spencer, stop!” he shouted, skidding to a halt next to him and almost over-balancing, the sidewalk slippery. They were in front of two storefronts, both painfully festive. Christmas decorations lit up the street, green and red lights throwing fractured colours across their faces. Distantly, he could hear the tinny whine of _It’s the Most Wonderful Time of Year_. “What the fuck was that? They were giving us a _gift_ , Spence. A chance to put everything that’s shit aside for the night and have a good time. Are you so determined to be miserable? After everything you told John?”

“I’m not miserable,” Spencer said, not looking Aaron in the eye. “You’re the one walking around like you don’t know how to feel anything anymore. When was the last time you smiled, Aaron? Properly smiled, not pretended to make the people around you feel better.”

Aaron blinked. “Tonight,” he said, confused. He smiled? He smiled all the time! “I was happy? I don’t know, Spence, if you’re miserable and projecting, that’s not on me. But what you did in there was rude—”

“That’s not what you’re mad about.” Spencer’s mouth curled. It wasn’t a smile. It wasn’t warm. It _was_ familiar. And Aaron’s heart sunk. “Out with it, Aaron.”

“You’re not coming because you’d rather go home for a hit,” Aaron accused him, but without any venom because _how could he have missed it_.

Spencer laughed. Laughed and laughed and Aaron made a furious noise and turned away to walk back to their friends. Stopped. He couldn’t walk away. “I’m already fucking high,” Spencer said, despite his even pupils, despite his calm demeanour. _If I was high-functioning, you wouldn’t know it._ Even looking for it, Aaron had missed it _again_. “I have been all night. Surely _one_ of you people would find something concerning about an addict ducking away to the bathroom every few hours…” He seemed to find this amusing.

Aaron swallowed down the cold wind and turned back to him, empty again. Exhausted. “You’re an asshole,” he said flatly. “And you care a lot more than you’ll admit. You don’t want to come _because_ you’re high. You don’t want to… sully Rhosgobel like that.”

A scoff was his reply. “Sully Rhosgobel?” Spencer asked, his tone wry. “Aaron, it’s not some magical fairy-tale place. It’s a bunch of mouldering wooden planks on the edge of a disused quarry. What I am now has no impact on the fact that it’s nothing special.” That was… harsh. Overly harsh. And objectively untrue. Aaron narrowed his eyes, and ignored the spike of hurt it caused _because_ it was intended to cause that spike. Spencer was pushing him away, goading him to leave. Trying to…

Make something easier.

Oh.

“What are you looking for here, Spence?” he asked, spreading his hands out in a _what_ gesture. His posture open and vulnerable, facing the only man he’d ever bare his soul to. The wind pushed harder, the temperature dropping. Aaron began to shiver, feeling his teeth clattering, his bare arms burning in the chill. Spencer looked at him blankly, shrugging out of the overcoat he hadn’t taken off in the restaurant and wordlessly passing it to him. Aaron didn’t take it, eyes locked on the jacket the other man still wore, covering his arms.

“Take it,” Spencer snapped, shaking the coat. “Or go away, back inside. Leave me alone.”

“No,” Aaron responded. “What are you looking for?”

Hazel eyes met his, dark against the pink wind-burned face, brown hair whipping up. Something white dusted the brown, melting away even as Aaron glanced at it. “The end,” Spencer said monotonously. “Now, leave.”

Snow. It was snowing. Barely. Aaron felt the snow brush his arms and said, “I’m not giving you that. I won’t give you that.” Shaking with more than the cold.

A smile. Bladed and cruel. “Yes, you will.” Spencer stepped closer, closer yet. Their chests pressed together, cold lips by his ear. “Want to know why?” Aaron didn’t answer, even as he felt something slow and sad shiver through the other man’s body. “Because you’re not your mom… and I’m a grenade. Unpredictable and dangerous, and you won’t live like that.”

He turned and walked away, dropping his coat on Aaron’s feet. Didn’t look back once. And Aaron felt it ending.

Unless, Spencer was talking about a different end.

The fear was fast and shocking, surging him forward and chasing the cold away like it was never there. He grabbed Spencer’s arm, yanking him back, trying to work out from the familiar face what _end_ he was looking for here, Ethan’s words ringing in his brain—

Spencer whirled, moved faster than Aaron could have imagined, and Aaron hit the ground. Hard. Blinked. Coughed. Lifted a hand to his mouth and stared at the bloodied fingertips.

Spencer stood over him, breathing stiffly. Eyes huge. Hand held out in front like it wasn’t a part of him, loose and hanging. He stared at his fingers, his wrist, expression glazing over. Surprised. He was surprised.

Aaron touched his mouth again.

_What?_

“Oi!” shouted someone, feet thudding towards them. “Get off!”

Simon. Aaron tried to turn his head to look and felt the world slip sideways a little as the tilt-shock of the blow kicked in and left him woozy. _Wait_ , he tried to say, because he’d blinked too long and Spencer was halfway gone.

Spencer hit him? Had he?

He… _what?_

A hand on his shoulder, heaving him up. Blue eyes studying his mouth, narrowed. “Mate, this might need stitches,” Simon was saying, and Aaron’s mouth felt wet, clumsy. Thick. Head whirling, but not with shock anymore.

They’d just hurtled over a line that there was no coming back from.

“Aaron? Hey, answer me. Want to give me some sign that your brains aren’t completely rattled up?”

Aaron stooped, ignoring the pain from his mouth and jaw, picking up the still warm coat from the wet puddles of already melted snow. Studied it carefully.

Not a second chance at all. A final one. Fail this one, and it was game over.

“Simon,” he said, his voice unfamiliar and garbled. He licked his mouth, winced, tongue wet with blood. Tried again. “I need a favour. Please. You know I’d never ask, never. Unless it was important.”

Simon nodded slowly. “Aye,” he said. “What?”

Aaron swallowed. Calculated. Planned. Said quietly, “Can I borrow some money?”

Quiet. The wind whistled.

Aaron hated winter.

“How much?”

 

* * *

 

He still had a key. Mouth numb from the painkillers they’d injected it with before stitching it up and head still aching with a deep-seated kind of throbbing, he knew he looked a sight. Hair thrown everywhere by the wind, jaw turning red and purple, mouth swollen grossly. Shirt splattered with blood under his rescued coat, rust red flakes still under his nails and in the dip of his throat where he’d missed washing it off.

Elle was cross-legged in front of Spencer’s door, a book in one hand. She looked up and her eyebrows rose when she saw him. “You look pretty,” she said, mouth thinning. “Going to press charges?”

“Over a cut?” Aaron closed the door behind him, his hip heavy with what was in his pocket. “No. Our tempers were both up. It would be a ridiculous overreaction for a singular event.”

She tilted her head. “Would it?” she replied, as Ethan appeared from the hall, expression wired.

“You should probably go,” he said, folding his arms. “Not for his sake, but for yours. Aaron, you’re not coping.”

“None of us are coping,” Aaron said calmly. “Elle, can you go to Ethan’s room, please? And stay there?” Silence. Elle stood, slowly, her eyes narrowing. Aaron pushed his hand into his pocket. It clinked. Loudly, in the quiet room, and those eyes widened again. And the moment stretched. Aaron stared her down, wondering just how fond of Spencer she was—the Spencer that was sober and nothing like the man they’d reluctantly come to know over the past six months—and whether that fondness would help or hinder him tonight.

“What are you…” Ethan began, as Elle walked out of the room and closed the hallway door behind her with a short, “You have ten minutes before I walk back out here, Hotchner.”

Ten minutes.

Plenty of time.

“Do panic,” he told Ethan with a smile that fucking _hurt_ , walking to the table and emptying his pockets. “Loudly, if you please. But if you try to touch me, I’ll drop you.”

Ethan’s mouth dropped open, eyes locked on the soft-capped bottle that was all Aaron could find at short notice. It wasn’t _hard_. His brother was a druggie, his boyfriend was too, Aaron _knew_ the ins and outs of it, despite his burning distaste. The hypodermic followed, crackling loudly as he removed the hard-plastic packaging and slid the protective cover from the needle shaft. Checked the bevel for damage. Slipped it through the thin top and hesitated. “Not actually hugely sure on this bit,” he called out loudly, ignoring Ethan’s spluttered, _Hotchner, what the **fuck** are you doing_. “I mean, I know in _theory_ how much I should take for a nice high, but in practise? I’m no mathematician, I’m really just ball parking. Should I go how much you do? I don’t have any tolerance, that might end badly.” He withdrew the plunger, watching the clear liquid fill the barrel until it hit the mark he was aiming for.

“Aaron, stop, seriously,” Ethan said, moving closer, and Aaron looked at him. Just looked. Ethan swallowed and froze. “This is a mistake.”

The next bit was easy. He’d seen it before, with Sean and his mates. Never with Spence; he’d never let him watch this. Aaron would have never let him go through with it. Gripped the barrel with his teeth gently—if he put it down, it would give Ethan an opening—rolled his sleeve up. Undid his belt and slid it free, flicking his eyes up to stare at Ethan as he looped it effortlessly around his bicep.

“Okay, this is fucked,” Ethan spat, almost pacing on the spot. “Elle!” Elle ignored him. Or at least, Aaron figured. His phone beeped. Twice.

**From Spencer: What are you doing??? He’s scared. Why is he scared.**

**From Elle: U better fucking no what ur doing out there Hotchner**

He ignored both. “Which vein?” he called out, studying his arm. Now or never. The adrenaline pushed him harder, his hands trembling, one around the needle, the other bunched in front of himself. He watched the muscles cord and tense. Now or never. If Spencer was still there, any part of the man he’d fallen in love with, the boy he’d built Rhosgobel with… this was their final chance to find him.

If Aaron did this, it was the end of that Spencer, and he knew it.

“Aaron, please,” Ethan breathed, and Aaron dipped the needle. Heard a husky whine of fear. Looked up to find Spencer staring at him like he was an image from his nightmares. Pure, absolute horror. Aaron had only ever seen an expression like that once; his own in the bedroom mirror, the night he’d found out how badly he’d failed his best friend.

He met his gaze calmly, without flinching. And didn’t look away.

“Come on then,” he said gently, letting his mouth smile. Nodded to the other hypodermic, still packaged. Sitting there waiting. “If you’re so determined to find an end, we’ll do it together. Facing our shared Balrog, huh? Now, come here. Show me how to find a vein.” Spencer stared. Eyes enormous and mouth slack, clearly frozen between the idea of staying still and the idea of moving toward, too scared to do anything in case it caused a reaction in the gunpowder tension. “Tell me,” Aaron barked, and Spencer jerked backwards, stumbling. “Or I swear, I’ll just start fucking jabbing!”

Spencer lurched forward, lunging for the needle. Aaron backed away, swung his hip around to block him. Winced as the needle tip caught his arm and left a thin line behind. Spencer staggered, his hip cracking painfully against the table with a sound like plates crashing together and choking out a whined slur of words that were too panicked and scared to be discernible. Nausea pushed up Aaron’s throat from his gut, thin and determined and reminding him that he was monstrous in this moment.

“Please, no,” Spencer moaned, slumping against the table, his breath hitching. “Aaron, don’t. Oh god, don’t, please.” Voice cracking, trembling. Pure, absolute terror. Aaron could hear the shocked tears behind the tone.

Monstrous.

Silence. Ethan still stared. Spencer buckled like he was being hurt, and he was. Aaron was hurting him. “I won’t,” Aaron said finally, watching as Spencer visibly deflated with relief in front of him, any strength he’d used to try and stop Aaron from destroying himself draining away at the words. “On one condition.” Spencer looked at him blankly. Gone. Aaron had broken him in that moment, shown him exactly what he would do to stop this.

It was the worst kind of power.

“Pack a bag,” he said quietly, and dropped the needle on the table. Let his arms fall to hang by his sides. “And get in the car. Or I swear, I’ll do it. It can be you scraping me from the gutter for once.” A slow, shattered nod and Spencer slipped away, eyes still hazed with shock. Good. While he was scared, he wouldn’t fight this. Aaron waited until he was in his room before picking up the needle, the bottle, and moving over to snap both into the sink, using a mug to crush them and running the tap to hide the remains. Ethan watched silently, moved to get a bundle of newspapers. Helped Aaron wrap the remaining sharps thickly in the paper and taped it shut to go into the dumpster on their way out.

“Where are you taking him?” Ethan asked into the silent, terrible victory. There was a squeak behind them as the door creaked open, Elle watching with an indiscernible expression. Aaron didn’t answer. He couldn’t. It wouldn’t make any sense to either of them. Only to one person.

Spencer reappeared, bag at his side and colour returning to his pale face. Eyes locked on Aaron’s mouth. Wordlessly, Aaron grabbed the bag and tossed it to Ethan to search. Checked Spencer’s pockets with a rough kind of care, following Elle’s murmured instructions on where else to pat him down. Making sure he was clean. Spencer was silent the whole time.

“Car, now,” Aaron ordered, when they’d found nothing. Spencer did, without a word. Aaron nodded to the other two, tossing his keys to the apartment on the table before walking out. With what he’d done just then, no matter the eventual outcome, he’d lost his right to them. He was under no illusions about that.

And they drove. Into the lightly snowing night, Spencer silent and curled over in the passenger seat and Aaron staring straight ahead. In his pocket, a bankcard that would get them through however long it took to do this, given with the soft instructions, _don’t let him see the pin. Don’t withdraw cash, he’ll use it for drugs. Don’t be thrifty—the shittier the motels you stay at, the more likely he’ll be able to score. Best case, sleep in the middle of buttfuck nowhere in the car. Good luck finding smack out there._

“Where are we going?” Spencer asked finally, his voice croaky and thin.

Aaron tightened his grip on the wheel. “We’re going to lose ourselves,” he said finally. “Somewhere we don’t know.”

And DC vanished behind them.


	41. Halcyon

**One.**

“Can I have my own room?” Spencer had asked inaudibly as they’d checked in on the first night, both drained from the long, silent drive. Aaron had glanced at him and snorted ruthlessly, cranky with exhaustion. Assumed the worst of him. Spencer had just shuttered his expression and looked away, his face twisted.

Later that night, Aaron found out why he’d asked.

“Stop moving,” he grumbled, feeling the bed twitch as Spencer rolled over and over and over again. Half asleep, he slipped his eyes shut once more. Dozed. Spencer flicked the light on, the turning pages of a book audible.

_Should have slept on the floor_ , Aaron thought wryly, huddling deeper into the blankets piled on top of him. He’d thought about it. Figured he should. Hadn’t. They weren’t talking; surely that alone was punishment enough. Ignoring the flick of pages, the constant back and forth of feet from the bed to the bathroom, he dozed.

Woke to a moan. Shot upright and found Spencer curled on the floor, knees to his chest, and _shaking_.

“Fuck,” Aaron hissed, rolling to reach for him. The blankets caught him, his elbow sinking into the horrible clammy-damp grip of wet sheets, imagining seizures and sickness and all kinds of things. “Spence, hey, what happened?”

It clicked a second later and he shrunk back, unsure. Spencer didn’t answer, just curled tighter, his body shuddering helplessly.

“I just need to sleep,” Spencer groaned finally, looking up. Aaron swallowed, examining that sweat-soaked hair, the pasty complexion, the raw hunger bared to him. “I can’t. I can’t sleep, I can’t focus, I can’t _anything_. I’m cold and then hot and then cold and then everything, all at once, and dizzy with it and—”

Aaron inched out of the bed, padding barefoot to the thermostat and cranking it. “You won’t sleep if you’re sweating through,” he said quietly, hunkering down on the floor next to him. “How bad is this going to get?” He hadn’t been there when Sean detoxed. He’d walked out on him.

He regretted that now.

Spencer’s eyes flicked back up to his, glazed. “Bad,” he admitted, and curled into Aaron’s arms. “I’m sorry.”

 

* * *

 

“Shut up, _shut up_ ,” Spencer snarled, twisted into himself on the floor with his arms over his head. “Oh god, please, make them _shut up_ , it hurts…”

Aaron grit his teeth and continued his anxious pacing, rolling the water bottle in his hands. _Slosh slosh,_ the relentless sound of the water Spencer was drinking frantically and sweating out just as fast. “I can’t make them stop,” he explained patiently, the distant hum of laughter from a gathering up the hall floating down to them. “And I can’t make it stop, Spence. You’re just going to have to ride it out. Talk to me. Just keep talking to me.”

He did. It helped.

Maybe.

Aaron sat on the floor with him for those relentless hours; sometimes hugging him close as he shivered and whined about the cold, sometimes shoved away as his body rebelled and tried to cook him from the inside out. Spencer babbled. Sometimes, complicated and science-y and too convoluted and confused for Aaron to follow. Sometimes, painfully simplistic.

“I can’t breathe,” he gasped at one point, shedding clothes. Aaron helped, his own guts twisting in sympathy. “God, Aaron, help. Everything hurts.” Hands rubbing hard over twitching muscles, leaving reddened rashes behind and scrapes where his nails dug angrily into the skin. Aaron caught those hands, every time, pulling them away. Disgusted and worried by the slick sweat that coated his fingers. “Help, help, please, help…”

He threw him into the shower at one point, as the night grated steadily onwards to day. Checked the temperature, added the Spencer, and went to see if he could order some breakfast while the man tried to wash the night from his body. The whole room stunk of being sick, the vomiting having arrived two hours beforehand and ripping his body in two with its force. Came back to find the water icy cold and Spencer crouched naked in the bottom of the shower, looking clear-eyed and determinedly stubborn.

“It’s almost snowing outside,” Aaron commented, looking down at him shivering under the stream. “Trying to freeze yourself?”

“We should go,” Spencer replied, ignoring his weary attempt at light-heartedness. “I’m just sore right now. I’m going to get sicker. And I’m going to get angry. There are… things I can take. To relieve it. Over the counter medication… mostly just to get me to sleep. I should just… sleep through it. That would be best, for you, yes...”

Aaron examined him, trying to tell if it was Spencer talking right now or the addict visible under his skin. “How long of this do we have left?” he asked, reaching into his pocket and fiddling with his wallet. They were barely twenty-four hours in.

Spencer reached up, turning the water off with fumbling hands, and slumping bonelessly to the dripping tiles. Heaved out a breath that looked like it hurt.

“Ten days,” he whispered finally, and Aaron’s heart cracked. “Give or take. Ten… ten days.”

“Okay,” Aaron replied, with a calm he didn’t feel. “Let’s go.”

 

**Two.**

Dead, grey-washed fields waiting for the first proper falls of winter. Aaron hissed as the car seared a cold-metal touch through his pants, huddling closer into his heavy coat, and stared at those fields. DC felt impossibly far away. Spencer retched onto the strip on the side of the freeway, hands curled into claws against his chest and hair matted. Over and over and over again, his spine snapping forward mercilessly as his body extracted revenge for whatever pleasure he’d gained the last six months. Aaron waited until he was done, for now, and picked him up out of the icy dust. Again. Used a towel that was painfully cold to the touch to roughly try to clean the worst of the splatters. Got back in the car and did the whole thing again. They made it three more miles before they had to stop once more.

“Why are you even fucking bothering?” Spencer snarled at one point, huddled in the backseat as they parked in the night, his eyes a glassy-shine from the weak gleam of passing headlights. “I’m just going to relapse again and again and again and what’s the _fucking point_. Just let me _do_ it.”

“No,” Aaron mumbled, turning the heater on. “Stop asking.”

But he didn’t. And the asking turned to begging. Half-threats. Turned to shouting, turned to getting out of the car and storming off. Aaron dragged him back and he barely fought back. Just flopped back into the backseat and started crying. _Why are you doing this to me. You’re just like everyone else._

_You just want to hurt me._

“Shut up, shut up!” Aaron screamed back at one point, on edge. Weak blue light thinning over the horizon. Driving again, because the last thing they needed was a flat battery, and Spencer seemed to manage to restrain himself from the raw fury when Aaron was driving at least. “Don’t _take_ this out on me.”

Cold eyes met his in the rear-view mirror. “You’re just going to throw me into rehab to rot anyway,” Spencer muttered angrily, unsnapping his seatbelt, clicking it back in, unsnapping it again. A repetitive, anxious pattern of _click-clack, click-clack, click-clack_ that Aaron couldn’t shut out no matter how high he turned the radio up. “I can see it in your eyes. You hate me now. Good. _Good._ I don’t care, do it, fucking _do it_. Oh god, my head, Aaron, _why don’t you care_. It hurts. It hurts so much, it’s going to kill me. Don’t you understand that?” Babbling, endless, miserable babbling, and Aaron cranked the music despite the headache he knew was assailing the other man. Couldn’t bear to listen.

They found a late-night chemist in a town they passed through. Spencer was quiet at this point.  “Anything to sleep,” he mumbled finally, voice thick and slurred. “Diphenhydramine. I just… sleep.”

Aaron bought two packets of Benadryl and doped him until he crashed. Then he parked, took two himself, and finally slept in the blissful, aching silence.

When they woke, they did it all over again.

 

**Three.**

“You have to eat.”

“I’m trying.” Spencer mouthed at the burger, swallowed a chunk, turned a vicious shade of green as Aaron watched, and didn’t make it out of the car in time. It wasn’t the first time it had happened. Aaron sighed, cracked the door open, and sadly reached once more for the cleaning supplies he’d stocked up on. Spencer huddled on the frozen asphalt next to the car wheel, watching miserably, his eyes dangerously shiny-bright. “Let me help,” he said, struggling to stand on limbs that didn’t want to support him, mouth white. Aaron ignored him. Watched as he slid back down to the ground into a shapeless lump of misery. Too fucking drained to do anything. He didn’t offer again. Aaron cleaned it up, hefted him up by his underarms, and poured him back in with a towel over the bleach-wet seat.

“We’ll find some soup or something,” he said, feeling nothing but exhausted. “A Denny’s somewhere.” Around them, the small town bustled. Lives, everywhere, bigger than his. Bigger than this. He felt sore and out of place, like a wound. Christmas lights and decorations hung around, just to remind them how broken they were.

They found somewhere that sold chicken soup. It went about as well as the burger did. Aaron settled for buying sports drinks and cheese sandwiches.

The listlessness was next, and Aaron would have been thankful for it if it wasn’t so fucking scary. “Spencer, come on, drink it,” he begged—his turn to beg now, as much as Spencer’s desperate pleas for anything, _anything Aaron just let me, please_ , had revolted him. “Please, just drink the water.”

Spencer shut his eyes and didn’t move. Lying like a dead thing on the backseat, face still shiny and flushed despite the white-blue pallor, too weak to even change out of the clothes he’d been sweating into for the last day.

Aaron left him there. What else could he do?

They drove until the sun went down on this terrible day and then parked once more. Couldn’t go any further. It was too dangerous; his eyes were gritty, burning, and he was losing time every time he blinked. Hours had passed, and Spencer hadn’t even twitched. Aaron checked his pulse, tipped his head up, poured the fucking water into his mouth and almost smiled when he coughed and heedlessly glared up at him. Pushing aside the genuine fear, he slipped out of the car, closed it behind him, and used Spencer’s coat to cover the hood of the car before perching on it.

The sky was oddly clear, stars white-silver and ridiculously alive. Even in the frigid air, temperature dropping fast enough that he couldn’t taste the sandwich he picked at, it was some reminder that he was still alive. Still breathing.

His cell hummed.

**From Simon: Please tell me you two are both still alive? Kate’s a mess.**

**To Simon: We’re alive. Just.**

The cold pushed down on him until he knew it was dangerous to stay outside any longer, his breath a fog in front of his mouth even with his scarf pulled up to save his lips. Crawling back into the car and carefully reclining the passenger seat to sleep on, nudging Spencer’s legs out of the way. Glassy eyes watched from the backseat.

“It’s the Winter Circle,” Spencer mumbled suddenly. Aaron cocked his head back to look at him, mumbling, _huh_? “The stars you can see. The  _Winter Circle_ , a big circle of bright stars on the dark dome of a winter night. Betelgeuse in the middle, the red one. Rigel, Aldebaran, Capella, Procyon, Sirius, Castor and Pollux, as well.”

Aaron blinked through that. It was the most he’d said in days. “You back with me, then?” he asked finally, running his tongue over a tacky mouth. “Back in your head?”

A slow, sluggish shrug was his reply. “I don’t know,” Spencer admitted, dropping his head down. “I feel dead. Hungry. Sore. Nothing human. And I stink. God, I stink, I’m sorry…” His words were trailing, slurring into nothing, eyes flickering shut. The packet of Benadryl crinkled as he rolled to try to fruitlessly tug the blanket up with hands that didn’t quite seem able to grip.

“Mm, I’m adjusting to that,” Aaron lied. He slipped up, fixing the blanket for him, grabbing another for himself. “Go back to sleep. We’ll sleep at a hotel tomorrow. Real food, a real shower. A real bed. We’ll get better.”

“Better,” Spencer slurred, and drifted off.

Another day down.

 

**Four.**

Finding a hotel wasn’t easy, as it turned out.

“Maybe we can stay in a barn,” Spencer commented wryly, at the third place they were turned away from. Aaron was driving backroads, bumping along, heading for some Bates knockoff they’d been told was back here. “You can sleep in a manger.”

“I’m not Jesus,” Aaron replied, rolling his heads and then his neck as they thumped over another pothole and jarred it. “Ow! Shit…”

As it turned out, Bates knockoff was a bit rude. The cabins were… nice. Dark. A little damp. Spencer seemed pleased enough with them. “Christmas Eve in a horror movie,” he said, smiling through the deep lines the past few days had carved on his face, around his mouth and eyes. Skin still weirdly sallow, eyes still grossly unfocused, he still looked like the walking dead. “Wonderful. We can watch terrible movies and try to frighten each other.” He was trying to be normal, trying so hard that Aaron ached for him. It wasn’t really working. Under the forced normality, they were both cranky, furious, sore with the past few days. Worried about the coming days. Unsure of anything. But the cabin was warm, they actually managed food, and all was fine until the power flickered out.

Spencer broke the miserable silence some hours later, slipping out of the bed he was sleeping in alone and padding through the pitch-black to peer down at Aaron on the couch, a ghostly blur in the black. He held up Aaron’s phone, the glowing screen cutting painfully into Aaron’s retinas. Any anger Aaron almost lashed out with faded as Spencer quietly passed the phone down and whispered, “Merry Christmas.”

Aaron looked at the phone. _00:37._

Oh.

“Merry Christmas,” he automatically replied, and they looked at each other like that for a long moment, before Spencer slunk back to the bed and the waiting quiet returned. Aaron stared at the roof. Counted the ceiling tiles he could see. Counted the coughs of the bar-fridge nearby. Counted his own breathing. Finally said, “My favourite Christmas was last year’s. The… Lord of the Rings. Rhosgobel. And then you hoarding all the bad jokes from the crackers and hiding them everywhere, all over the house, for weeks after. Simon got so the first mention of ‘what does a’ would send him screaming from the apartment…”

A hoarse chuckle sounded from the darkness. “They weren’t bad jokes,” Spencer replied, after a beat. They fell silent for a moment. “Mine was when I was ten,” he continued suddenly, and Aaron jolted because he hadn’t actually expected Spencer to talk. “Mom was… not well. And Dad had left. I missed you. But she wanted us to have a normal Christmas, so we went on a holiday to this lake in the middle of the mountains and she taught me how to ice-skate. And I fell over, so much, but she just kept picking me up… every time, she picked me up again. Until I worked out how to do it on my own and stopped falling…”

It hurt. God, but why did it hurt. Aaron didn’t think it was the story that was turning his heart into a hard, compacted lump of pain in his chest. He didn’t think it was the misery of spending Christmas in a shoddy hotel while Spencer detoxed. He didn’t think it was that his Mom hadn’t called, or that Sean hadn’t texted.

It was the two arm’s lengths of space between the couch and the bed, that he didn’t know how to cross.

“We’re not going to have another Christmas, are we?” Spencer asked suddenly, and Aaron squeezed his eyes shut against that, and his heart too. “This is our last?”

He didn’t answer, because he didn’t need to.

They both knew.

 

**Five.**

Spencer drove and Aaron didn’t fight with him over it, because he was still exhausted, his hands and legs aching. “Sleep some more,” Spencer had suggested, and Aaron had been so relieved by both the offer and the small hint of the Spencer who _cared_ about things other than drugs, that he’d done exactly that.

And woke to a white-frosted parking lot looking down on a…

“Spencer, where are we?” he asked, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. Spencer was grinning.

“I asked the receptionist at the hotel if there was anywhere nearby open today,” he replied, tugging on his coat and mittens, winding a scarf around his neck. “And she said here would be—they do every year for the kids… would… would you like to…?”

Aaron would. But… “I don’t know how to ice-skate,” he said, hopping from foot to foot as they left the car and found themselves on the wooded slope curving down to the frozen lake, families and children clustered around and on it. “I never learned.”

“I know,” Spencer said quietly, his shoes scuffing in the frosty dirt. In the fresh, clean sun of the weak winter morning, he looked… okay. Just, okay.

Which was amazing.

Spencer wasn’t done. He held out his hand, thickly mittened, and Aaron hesitated. “I’ll teach you?” he offered shyly, and Aaron remembered a quarry and a bike and an evening spent laughing.

“That would be awesome,” he admitted, channelling that child-him, and took the hand offered.

And it was.

A brief moment of being okay, that neither of them ever forgot.

 

* * *

 

Bruised from the knees up, Aaron groaned as he eased back into the car seat, hands warm from the turkey roll a family had offered them as a gift. Spencer picked at his, looking green around the edges, licking the gravy that oozed out the sides. They’d thanked the family. Spence had shown the children magic tricks involving coins and ears and half a bar of soap that Aaron had no idea where he’d pulled from and then they’d given their goodbyes and wandered, exhausted but _happy_ , back to the car.

“What next?” Spencer asked, nipping at a corner of turkey poking out of his roll. “Where do we go now? Is there a _plan_ to this excursion across the country or are we just… meandering?”

“Meandering, mostly,” Aaron admitted. He finished his lunch, licking at his fingers and yawning. “Once you stop looking like you’re apart to keel over, we’ll… work something out.” By work something out, he meant he’d _admit_ to the next part of the plan. The next part that he was pretty sure Spencer already suspected. Most of it, anyway. He reckoned there was some that were still going to blindside him.

Spencer made a deep-down grunt of a noise, one that Aaron knew and dreaded. Catching the roll Spencer lobbed at him, he watched sadly as the man tumbled out of the car and vanished into the thick brush on the side of the empty parking lot, everyone else having gone home by this point. Sighing, he found a bottle of water, perched it on Spencer’s seat for him to rinse his mouth out with when he came back, and settled in to wait.

And waited.

And waited.

“Hmm,” he said, looking up and frowning. Anxious worry fizzed into his belly and his brain, and he surged up and out of the car, wishing for a weapon, his fingers tight around his cell. Spencer might have been attacked, hurt, maybe he was _really_ sick and seizing in the slush… Aaron ran. Ran, and skidded out almost on top of the man, thumping his knee _hard_ into his back and hearing him gasp out a rough _oof_ , falling forward.

“Shi—fuck,” Aaron gasped, keeping himself upright only with a hand on Spencer’s back, the other man crouched in front. “What are you _doing_?”

“Shh,” Spencer hissed, finger to his blue lips. It was _freezing_ out here, and he wasn’t wearing his gloves, his scarf, his…

Something whined.

Aaron blinked. Crouched, and peered under the bush that Spencer extended a wary finger towards, murmuring soft soothing nothing whispers to the underbrush.

The something shifted in the leaves.

“Go get the roll,” Spencer whispered. Aaron stood, backing away cautiously, turning to do exactly that.

Only after, as they sat in the car while Spencer cleaned gravy off of the puppy-soft ears of the most ridiculously gangly animal Aaron had ever seen, did he think twice about what they’d just done.

“Ah,” he said, pausing from cupping water in his hands for the thirsty puppy to slurp messily from, its brown-grey fur tufted and silly. “Spence. You know, there’s no way we can…” Four wide, begging eyes met his, and he crumpled immediately. “We’re finding a shelter,” he warned them, and Spencer just smiled.

**Six.**

Day six was completely uneventful. Aaron drove, now with purpose, knowing exactly where he was heading and sure at some point Spencer would realize it too. The dog howled and howled and howled from the backseat until Spencer finally crawled back there and wrapped himself around the irrational animal. Aaron glanced back and saw the thing hanging in the air as Spencer laid on his back and dangled it, rolling his eyes at them both.

“She’s a hound dog,” Spencer announced proudly. “And a she. I don’t actually know that much about hounds, but—” His voice became background noise that was oddly soothing, rambling about dogs and puppies and hounds and hunting until Aaron tuned out. Smiling. Until the murmuring went quiet, and he glanced back again to find Spencer fast asleep, puppy on his stomach, both mouths hanging open. He was a little jealous of the stupid dog.

But… thankful too. Because, since they’d found the thing…

Not once had Spencer mentioned the drugs, despite the shakes still working through him.

Yeah. Mostly thankful.

 

**Seven.**

The seventh day, Spencer worked it out.

“We’re going to Vegas,” he said blankly, parked outside a truck-stop where they’d found a leash and kibble for the animal that Aaron was still resolutely planning on rehoming as soon as they found somewhere to do so. The dog sprawled on his lap, tongue lolling, its paws were large enough on its tiny body that it looked like it was going to completely overbalance and roll forward into the foot-well. “Aren’t we?”

Aaron puffed against his cold fingers, cupping them over his mouth. “Yes,” he said finally, into the warm air trapped there. “I… I think you should see your mom. Talk to her…”

“About?” Spencer’s voice was cool. The dog whined.

And Aaron breathed in, tight and hoarse, before saying, “Everything.”

A sharp rap on the window broke the building silence, as they tried to look everywhere but at each other. The dog squeaked with fear, scrambling awkwardly into Aaron’s lap, away from the noise, and huddling down. Aaron swore, dropping a hand to protect his crotch from clumsy paws, and then swore again as the seat between his legs became suspiciously wet.

“Um, hi,” said the woman outside as Spencer wound the window down, Aaron fighting a losing battle over getting the dog out from his lap before it could mess on him as well. “Saw you guys sitting out here—I work in there, we’re having a lunch thing for people stuck out and well, it’s… going to snow soon. And it’s basically Christmas. If you’d… like.” She was nervous, wiping her hands over her grimy apron, flushing when Spencer peered up at her. White drifted around behind her, the snow blowing gently in. Finally.

The dog, utterly terrified of _everything_ , tried to crawl up Aaron’s shirt.

“You can bring the pup if you want,” she added, smiling at the tail slinking between the gangly hind legs. “We have a seating area where people can have their dogs.”

Aaron looked down sadly at his seat. “That would be good, actually, thanks,” he said, smiling warmly at her. She beamed and skittered away, and his smile vanished as he turned to his sullen partner. “Your dog—”

“Halcyon,” Spencer said softly, taking the dog back and hugging her close, despite her damp legs. The dog snuffled and wheezed, sneezing grossly.

“You… named it.”

“Her. I named her.” He looked up at him, his expression turning fierce. “Or are you going to throw her into a shelter ten minutes after you drop me off at rehab?”

Silence.

Ah.

“You know about that,” he said, without shock. It wasn’t hard to work out that Aaron wasn’t naïve enough to think detoxing was going to fix everything they were.

“Yes.”

Aaron sucked in a sharp breath, climbing out of the seat and digging through his bag for a pair of clean jeans… and the cleaning supplies. “You can’t keep the dog,” he said finally, avoiding the hard topic.

“I don’t want to keep Halcyon.”

Aaron snapped his head around. “What?” he snapped, grabbing his wallet and keys as well, dropping a towel onto the bleachy car-seat and hoping it wouldn’t completely freeze over while they were eating. Spencer followed, dog in arms staring distrustfully down at the snow. “Why are you mad at _me_ for not naming her then?”

Spencer swallowed, hard, and the noise was audible even in the parking lot, as the crunched their way to the truck stop. “I want you to keep her,” he said finally, white puffing from his mouth. The dog howled from inside his coat, kicking around. “You don’t like being lonely and I’ll be…”

“It’s only three months.” Aaron wavered. He didn’t want the dog. He absolutely did not want the dog. He looked at the dog as he thought this, the wet nose poking out from Spencer’s collar, the single hint of a dark eye.

He kind of wanted the dog.

“It’s not going to be three months,” Spencer murmured, smiling to the people behind the counter as they walked into the quiet restaurant area and found a corner where the dog wouldn’t worry anyone. “You know it’s not going to be three months. We _can’t_ be together. We’ve proven this… you can’t cope when I’m hurting, and I can’t cope with you not coping. We’ll fall down the same path, again and again and again.”

Aaron stared straight ahead, at nothing. Watched as Spencer sat down. Stood beside him with his jeans in his hands, his crotch clammy and uncomfortable. Needing to go change. Needing to know what this conversation meant. Knowing what it meant. “You’re not going to fight me over rehab, are you?” he realized out loud, and Spencer shook his head. “You’re going to go. I’ve seen… I’ve seen too much of you now for you not to go…” A nod. “… but you’re not coming back, are you?”

Silence.

“I’m not making this choice, Aaron,” Spencer said finally, letting the dog slip from his lap to snuffle at the table leg. “You left my apartment keys on the table. You’d decided we were over before we left… probably when I hit you. Maybe before that. I’m just… making it easier for you. You’ll… destroy yourself over this if I don’t. You’ll falter when you need to be strong, keep coming back to me, keep sacrificing everything to hold me afloat. And we won’t heal that way. I can do it on my own, but only if you _let_ me be alone. And you’re… stronger than I’ve ever been.”

“I’m not keeping the dog,” he said finally, after a long painful silence, and walked away to the bathrooms. They didn’t talk about it again. They did get free fluffy hats with ridiculous ear-flaps when the owner took pity on them taking the dog out into the snow to pee. Spencer looked… fantastic in his, somehow. But Aaron couldn’t find any joy in the sight.

Just memorized it, as best as he could.

When they finally slept, Aaron woke with the dog on his lap. Spencer’s hand on his thigh, the other man lolled back in the driver’s seat with his head tipped sideways and the ear-flappy hat slipped over his eyes as he snored gently. The dog whined and kicked in her sleep, paws digging into Aaron’s belly.

He didn’t move her, but only because she was warm.

**Eight.**

**To Simon: It’s Spence. Can Aaron have a dog? S.R.**

**From Simon: What? When? No?**

**To Simon: …. Too late. S. R.**

**1+ PICTURE ATTACHED**

**From Simon: Holy fuck that’s cute what the fuck yes**

**To Simon: Oh, good. Now I’ll tell him he has a new dog. S. R.**

**To Simon: : )**

**Nine.**

Spencer went alone to visit his mother. Aaron waited at the hotel, pacing pacing pacing, and hoping to god it wasn’t a mistake. Hoping he wasn’t going to get a knock on his door and have the man stumble through, ruined and high. Hoping…

Well, bizarrely, still hoping for a miracle. That Spencer would come back from visiting his mother for the first time since _it_ happened, and he’d be okay. Better. The boy that Aaron remembered, or the man that boy had promised to be. Naïve, yes, but goddamn. He could hope, couldn’t he?

There was a book in his bag. One he’d brought with him, but hadn’t had the nerve to bring out while the other man was glued to his side. A book made by clumsy hands, by agile minds. A book they’d made together. He read it again and chuckled as he hit something he’d almost forgotten. “Look,” he told the sleeping dog, smuggled into the room and stuffed full of so much food she had no choice but to sleep it off. “He named you after the girl in his story. I’d forgotten, somehow.” He guessed they’d found a Halcyon of sorts after all, on their long, winding drive across the country. Even if they hadn’t found peace, yet, they’d found something.

The dog whuffed, paws and whiskers twitching.

Late that night, the door opened. Spencer slipped back in, his eyes distant. Aaron waited, curled in the lonely bed. Watched as Spencer snuck through, clearly sure he was asleep, placing his keys and wallet gently on the table and shushing the dog.

“Are you okay?” Aaron asked, even his whisper startling in the quiet room. Spencer jumped, looking over at him. Continued unfolding the blankets to make a bed on the couch as he answered.

“Actually… yeah,” he said, and even in the dark, Aaron could see a tentative smile. “I… really missed her, Aaron. And I thought, if I went there, she’d still… blame me. But she doesn’t. And I should never have thought she’d… hate me. For what I’ve done.”

“Did you tell her?” The room fell quiet again, except for the rustling of the blankets. Aaron sat up, the mattress silent and soft under him.

“Yes,” Spencer answered. “About… the drugs. And the case.”

“Connors?”

Spencer shook his head. “I couldn’t. How could I? I can’t… can’t even talk about it with you, and you know…” He was staring down at the couch. Voice husky. Strained. Today had taken its toll.

Aaron slid back down. “Come to bed,” he murmured, feeling rather than seeing Spencer look up at him. “Please… for tonight. You’re exhausted. You’ve been crying. It doesn’t have to mean anything, I know we’re… over. But we can still be here for each other. Right now, we’re still _together_.”

The bed dipped. Spencer slid in beside him, curled into his arms.

They slept like that.

And, in the morning, before the dog woke and whined to go outside, they found each other one last time. Aaron gasped, arched with a breathy moan upwards into the warm, firm body pressed against him. Mouths together, again and again, like the first time. Like the last. Trying to swallow back everything this moment meant, desperate and tangling and pressing into each other, helpless to pull away. Spencer was naked, needy; Aaron was just needy.

As Aaron came, he bit down on his lip, forgetting the still stitched sore. Choked through the pain, the sharp-shock that thankfully cut back the words he’d almost whined.

Spencer wasn’t so lucky.

Mouth against Aaron’s shoulder, pressed tight against his skin, he breathed what was almost an _I love you_.

Aaron pretended not to hear, and they both pretended not to hurt.

 

**Last.**

They spent New Year’s together, curled together in the backseat of the car with Halcyon howling miserably between them. Spencer covered her ears. Aaron curled his hands over Spencer’s.

They fell asleep with their arms wrapped around each other.

“What now?” Aaron asked, the next day, and here was the faltering. Here was the doubting his plan, the wondering if they could just go home and try again, without changing a thing. That would work, right? There was a brochure in the glove compartment with a date and time and Spencer’s check-in details written on it. He didn’t want to get it out. Didn’t want to drive back to DC. Didn’t want to…

“We end,” Spencer said quietly, and turned the ignition.

They went home the long way.

A week later, Aaron held the dog as Spencer walked away from them, bag over shoulder, up the driveway of the place that was going to make him feel like his mother. Gravel crunched, and Spencer didn’t look back. Halcyon wiggled and whined and tried to chase him. Aaron pulled her close, hooking his arm around her soft tummy, and pressing his mouth to the glossy fur on her sloped forehead.

“I miss him, too,” he murmured, and when he looked up, Spencer was gone. Sighed. Hissed out a hot breath, that she mirrored with a low whine. “Come on then, stupid. Let’s go…”

There was a shelter three blocks away. He’d drop her there and then go home.

And start again.

Alone.


	42. Epistolary, 2003

Dear Spencer

I don’t know what to write to you anymore. I know I’m never going to send this anyway, but that… doesn’t seem to matter.

I don’t know

I just hope you’re okay

Aaron

01/20/2003

 

Spencer

God I miss you so fucking much. I just want it to stop.

I worked out why you wanted me to keep the stupid dog. Guess you knew this was coming, didn’t you? This feeling. Like there’s no point to getting up, to leaving the house, to doing anything to better myself because there’s nothing at the end of it. I know it’s temporary. I guess you wanted me to have something to carry me through it

But I cant help but wonder, you wanted me to have the dog… what do you have to get through this?

Aaron

01/25/2003

 

Spencer

Im drunk and your in rehab and everything is fucked I miss you. ~~Im never goingto stop missing you~~

Everything is fucked

come home ~~please~~ I cant ~~doit without you anymore~~

I just got you back

Aaron

01/29/2003

 

* * *

 

**To Ethan: How is he?**

**Ethan: Come on, Hotchner. You’re just going to hurt yourself more if you don’t make it a clean break. Trust me**

**To Ethan: Please**

**Ethan: No**

**Ethan: Fuck. He’s okay. Just okay. Comes home in a month. Don’t do this**

**To Ethan: Thank you.**

* * *

**To Elle: This isn’t going to end well.**

**Elle: I no. U think Hotchner is going to b clingy over this? U wait until we get Mr. Co-Dependant himself back 2 ur place. I give it a month until they’re back together.**

**To Elle: Twenty bucks on a week**

**Elle: Deal. Pony up Jazzboy**

* * *

**To Simon: Thirty bucks they get back together in a week**

**Simon: Oh yes, that’s jolly. Let’s make bets on our friends suffering, that’s *hilarious*. Don’t be a total d-bag Ethan**

**Simon: Forty on a month. Aaron has some self-control**

* * *

Spencer,

You know they’re making bets on when we’re going to get back together? They think I don’t know. I’m not stupid.

You’re going to find them painfully smothering when you get back, as a warning. Elle keeps trying to talk about her past bad-breakups as some sort of really ineffective ‘look on the bright side’, but all her stories end with her breaking the dude’s heart and possibly his legs as well. Simon hid every movie that even has a hint of romance in it from the DVD shelf. Kate keeps sliding pictures of happy dogs under my door.

I’d like to say they’re wrong, but Im sitting here writing a letter to you I’m never going to send. That’s not exactly a sign of healing, is it?

I bet you know the exact amount of time down to the minute since we last saw each other though

Hope youre okay

Aaron

02/27/2003

 

* * *

 

Voicemail received: 04/20/2003 at 04:37

From: A. Hotchner

Duration: 00:07:31

 

**Ethan: Want me to delete that before he wakes up?**

**Ethan: Judging from the delightful blur of consonants you’ve got there, I’m going to guess you’re having a nice nap. Phones were invented to ruin men like you, Hotchner.**

**Elle: B thankful u rang the house phne nd not his. I deleted it 4 u. Ur wlcome.**

**Ethan: I would have deleted it, eventually. Honest.**

* * *

**To Simon: Is he drinking again?**

**Simon: Yes.**

* * *

**To Ethan: I hope this is fucking funny to you. Guess us humans hurting must b a real laugh and a half.**

**Ethan: Never said it was. Don’t get drunk and lash out at me because you’re both doing what’s right by each other.**

* * *

To: **ah4567a@student.american.edu**

From: **Stuck_in_the_fiddle_with_you@hotmail.com**

Subject: **Here’s the deal**

Body:

He’s a mess. You’re a mess. It’s never been funny to us.

If you stop drinking, stop obsessing, I’ll keep you updated on how he is, okay? Not all the time. Every couple of months, I’ll send an email and you send one back letting us know you’re alive. Three questions each. But in return, you need to stop breaking yourself apart over this.

Delete his number. Delete mine. I’m making him do the same because I’m sick of watching him pace around staring at the send button on his phone, not that it will do any good.

You guys are going to be okay. You just need to trust each other.

Move on.

Ethan.

_06/09/2003 17:55_

 

To: **Stuck_in_the_fiddle_with_you@hotmail.com**

From: **ah4567a@student.american.edu**

Subject: **re: Here’s the deal**

Body:

Deal.

_06/09/2003 20:02_

* * *

Spencer,

Ethan’s right. No more phantom letters. No more nights just spent hating everything.

We have to do better or we did this for nothing (I guess it’s kind of rude of me to assume that you’re struggling like I am, you’re probably fine).

So, this is it. Day 1 of manning the fuck up.

I miss you. But goodbye.

Aaron

06/09/2003

 

* * *

 

To: **ah4567a@student.american.edu**

From: **Stuck_in_the_fiddle_with_you@hotmail.com**

Subject: **I feel like I’m in high school again**

Body:

  1. How’s college (this question was actually in the form of a long rambling fucking insane sounding babble, I cut it down. Be thankful)
  2. Are you okay (you two suck)
  3. Did you keep the dog?



Keep it short and sweet, Romeo.

_10/01/2003 12:00_

 

To: **Stuck_in_the_fiddle_with_you@hotmail.com**

From: **ah4567a@student.american.edu**

Subject: **re: I feel like I’m in high school again**

Body:

  1. I’m passing. By next semester, I’ll be back up to standard—professors are helping me pick up extra courses where I can so I’m still on track to apply to finish undergrad next year, finally.
  2. Getting there. Things are… better now. I’m still going to therapy. I thought you’d want to know that.
  3. >_>



1+attachment

My turn.

  1. Are YOU okay? Still going to therapy? Are you TALKING?
  2. How’s your mom???
  3. What next?



_10/01/2003 13:47_

To: **ah4567a@student.american.edu**

From: **Stuck_in_the_fiddle_with_you@hotmail.com**

Subject: **re:** **I feel like I’m in high school again**

Body:

That’s three questions in the first question. You suck at this

  1. Yes yes and yes. That’s all you get. I’m not transcribing every um.
  2. She’s good. He’s going to visit her next month.
  3. Who knows?



See you in three months, Hotchner.

_10/01/21:13_


	43. Epistolary, 2004

To: **ah4567a@student.american.edu**

From: **Stuck_in_the_fiddle_with_you@hotmail.com**

Subject: **Happy New Year**

Body:

Sup. Merry all that. Before you ask: yes he’s clean, yes he’s okay. Has a job interview coming up, Elle got him in contact with some people who are really interested in his work. Court case is over. They got them all, Hotchner. It’s completely done. I asked him what he wanted me to ask you. He just had one. Are you happy?

I swear, you guys are the sappiest.

Ethan

_01/01/2004 12:00_

 

To: **Stuck_in_the_fiddle_with_you@hotmail.com**

From: **ah4567a@student.american.edu**

Subject: **re: Happy New Year**

Body:

Yeah. Yeah, I am. Would he consider catching up sometime? Tell him Halcyon has eaten four remotes and twelve shoes and I’m considering mailing her to you guys.

Aaron.

_01/01/2004 12:23_

To: **ah4567a@student.american.edu**

From: **Stuck_in_the_fiddle_with_you@hotmail.com**

Subject **: re:** **Happy New Year**

Body:

Don’t you fucking dare. I don’t do dogs. He says no. Sorry, man.

Ethan

_01/01/2004 13:04_

To: **Stuck_in_the_fiddle_with_you@hotmail.com**

From: **ah4567a@student.american.edu**

Subject: **re: Happy New Year**

Body:

I understand. See you in three months.

Aaron

_01/01/2004 16:57_

* * *

**Simon: I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE MOVING OUT. WHAT WILL I DO WITHOUT MY AARON. I AM LONELY. LONELY. LOOOOONELY**

**Kate: WHY IS HE SINGING. MAKE HIM STOP. IM STUDYING.**

**To Simon: STOP SINGING. YOU’RE THE ONE MOVING AWAY FIRST, ASSHOLE. YOU’RE KICKING US OUT**

**To Kate: I made it worse. He’s singing louder. And now the dog is singing with him.**

**Kate: I hate it here**

**Kate: That was a lie. I love it here. I’m going to miss you guys.**

**To Kate: Yeah. I’ll miss you guys too.**

* * *

To: **ah4567a@student.american.edu**

From: **Stuck_in_the_fiddle_with_you@hotmail.com**

Subject: **This has been your scheduled update**

Body:

Still alive. Still nerdy. Dresses worse than ever.

Ethan.

_03/01/2004_

 

To: **Stuck_in_the_fiddle_with_you@hotmail.com**

From: **ah4567a@student.american.edu**

Subject: **re: This has been your scheduled update**

Body:

Thank you. Tell him the dog has surpassed all expectations of idiocy and I’m actually considering having her tested to see if she’s actually a cat in disguise. Or some sort of really clumsy mongoose. Tell him I blame him for this.

Aaron.

_03/25/2004 09:45_

To: **ah4567a@student.american.edu**

From: **Stuck_in_the_fiddle_with_you@hotmail.com**

Subject: **re:** **This has been your scheduled update**

Body:

He says it’s nature vs. nurture at this point, and he places the blame squarely on your parenting.

Ethan

_03/25/2004 16:25_

* * *

To: **ah4567a@student.american.edu**

From: **Stuck_in_the_fiddle_with_you@hotmail.com**

Subject: **Goddamn it’s hot**

Body:

He’s dating again. Proper dates. I feel cruel typing this, like I’m rubbing it in, but… I don’t know. It’s good? Are we good?

Ethan.

_06/01/2004 12:00_

To: **Stuck_in_the_fiddle_with_you@hotmail.com**

From: **ah4567a@student.american.edu**

Subject: **re: Goddamn it’s hot**

Body:

No, no, that’s good. It’s wonderful. We’re good. I don’t think we need this anymore. I think… I think we’re okay. Tell him good luck.

Aaron

_06/05/2004 17:18_


	44. Epistolary, 2006

To: **ah4567a@student.american.edu**

From: **Simon_is_simply_salacious@hotmail.com**

Subject: **Dude, what!?!**

Body:

Errrrr so how’s things you know that thing that thing that’s happening that you might not know about because you’re you

_10/29/2006 09:45_

To: **Simon_is_simply_salacious@hotmail.com**

From: **ah4567a@student.american.edu**

Subject: **re:** **Dude, what!?!**

Body:

What the hell are you rambling about? How’s London? Halcyon ate the mug you sent me.

_10/29/2006 17:25_

 

To: **ah4567a@student.american.edu**

From: **Simon_is_simply_salacious@hotmail.com**

Subject: **re:** **Dude, what!?!**

Body:

Oh you know London is wonderful everything is wonderful Halycon’s a wanker _spencersgettingmarried_ ha ha so how about that weather then

_10/29/2006 20:57_

To: **Simon_is_simply_salacious@hotmail.com**

From: **ah4567a@student.american.edu**

Subject: **re:** **Dude, what!?!**

Body:

Ha ha hilarious. You’re hilarious, dickhead

_10/30/2006 10:29_

Body:

What the fuck

_10/30/2006 10:49_

To: **ah4567a@student.american.edu**

From: **Simon_is_simply_salacious@hotmail.com**

Subject: **re:** **Dude, what!?!**

Body:

You okay?

_10/30/2006 12:03_

Body:

Aaron? Hey, seriously, you okay?

_11/16/2006 07:47_

Body:

You looked up who it was, didn’t you?

_11/16/2006 22:55_

**_505: The email address you have tried to reach does not exist._ **


	45. Loose Ends – Sep, 2012

“Mr. Hotchner.” The cool voice was just as Aaron remembered it. Cool and _hated_. “You must be pleased with yourself.”

Aaron didn’t look up. Not at first. First, he finished packing his paperwork into his briefcase, allowing a small smile to pin his lips upwards. “Excuse me,” he said to the briefcase, darting his eyes upward for a split second. “Won’t be a moment.”

_Wait, you bastard._

It was childish.

It felt so fucking good.

“Mr. Connors,” Aaron said finally, straightening. The man stared back at him, dark eyes cold. Aaron was taller than him now. Taller, perhaps, broader. Or the other man had shrunk in the years between them meeting last. “Pleased?” He looked down, slowly and examined the cuffs around the man’s wrists. “Yes. Yes, actually. Good day. Enjoy prison.” And he turned, and walked away. Away from the man he’d finally enacted revenge on. Away from the counsel table, away from the man being led away, away from the jury he’d convinced of that man’s guilt. Away from the child who’d been hurt in the meantime.

Barely fourteen, and he’d stood and testified without flinching. Connors hadn’t broken him. History wouldn’t repeat here, because Connors had made a mistake.

This boy wasn’t alone.

The doors swung shut, and it felt like an ending.

 

* * *

 

“Look at you.” Simon was smoking again, leaning outside the courthouse. “That? That was Hotshot Hotchner in action, my friend. You looked _alive_ up there, it was mad, mate. I felt like nudging the lady next to me and telling her I knew you when you used to think tequila was a food group.” He leaned his head back, puffing smoke into a ring in front of them. Aaron chuckled, pausing and examining his friend as Simon sighed. “We’re not in our twenties anymore, are we? God, I feel old.”

“London’s made you fat,” Aaron said finally, shaking his head as Simon offered him the smoke. “Those things will kill you.”

“It’s not fat.” Patting the slightest hint of weight under his usually emaciated build, Simon winked. “It’s all that lovely personality I’ve been building up to combat the bitchy London weather. And you… don’t look like you’ve spent the last four years behind a desk.” Aaron stared him. Wondered if he should talk about how much he hated his desk, how helpless he felt in his job, how he couldn’t help but feel that he could have stopped the people like Connors before they hurt their victims.

He took the smoke.

“I ah, exercise a lot…” he began, staring straight ahead. At the crowd leaving the courthouse, the flash of cameras, the shouts of onlookers. A girl who watched the man being led to the waiting police cars, her hair tied back in a neat bun and face the only one that wasn’t furious. Wasn’t delighted.

It was just… heartbroken.

Aaron stared at that girl, and then he stared at the man who stepped up beside her. The man in his purple shirt, who paused, bowed his head. Murmured something, then led her away. His gaze sweeping the sidewalk, looking for someone.

Landing on Aaron.

“Oh shit,” Simon said, as Spencer moved past them, his eyes locked on Aaron’s face. The girl looked from one to the other, face confused. “Woah. He grew up.”

He’d watched. He’d seen Aaron put the man who hurt him away.

Aaron swallowed and a burning, pooling sense of _accomplishment_ bubbled up inside him. Nothing else mattered. Not what had come between them before. Not the fact that he knew there was nothing for them moving forward. He’d done right by them. He felt, in that moment, very much like he was twelve and standing on a fence in the middle of a storm, thin fingers threading through his. Keeping them steady.

“Wait.” The girl turned and moved back to Aaron. Spencer watched. There was no expression on his face. “You’re the lawyer, yeah? The one who put my dad away?”

Aaron recognised her. Spencer wasn’t the only one who’d grown up.

“Yes,” Aaron said quietly. Waited for it. In the four years since passing the bar, he’d run the gauntlet of every emotion the families of the people he prosecuted could feel.

Silence settled. Spencer stepped closer, and the empty look shifted. Turned almost wishful.

“Thank you,” Alice Connors said, her fingers brushing his hand. “Thank you… Mr. Hotchner. Thank you, Spencer.” And she was gone. They watched her go; seventeen-years-old, and maybe life was going to be okay to her after all.

“Seven minutes,” Spencer murmured in that quiet waiting, glancing back to the smoke in Aaron’s fingers. He smiled.

Aaron blinked. “Huh?” he said, his words failing him. The cigarette burned down. “Oh, err. Yeah, it’s Simon’s.”

And Spencer looked at him oddly, for the first time since they’d broken apart so many years ago. Healthy. He looked healthy, and confident, and… alive. “Thanks, Aaron,” he said, ducking his head, and walked away. Lifted his hand in a casual goodbye, that almost felt… normal.

Aaron dropped the cigarette, pressing the butt down under his heel, wondering what was next. Back to his desk, he guessed. He glanced after Spencer, eyeing that lifted hand as it dropped again. The ring on his finger fractured the afternoon light. Aaron noted that.

And the day was over.


	46. And Once More, With Feeling

**Sometime in 2015…**

“Aaron Hotchner, ma’am.” Hotch held out his hand and wasn’t at all surprised when the returned grip was firm and confident, dark eyes crinkling in greeting. “I’m transferring into this unit today?”

“Hello, Aaron Hotchner,” she said with a cat-like smile that was both somehow very professional and somehow… not. Hotch had met a smile like that before, a long time ago. “SSA Prentiss. Welcome to the BAU.” Here she was, the unit chief he’d been warned about. _Good luck_ , the Seattle team had warned him. _They’re cowboys. They’ll chew you up, Hotch. Say goodbye to your precious regulation handbook._

He shifted the box in his arms, skimming the office without appearing to. “Forgive me,” he said, surprised by her friendly welcome. “I was led to believe you’d protested my inclusion onto your team. If you don’t mind me saying so.”

“Not at all. We value team members who speak their mind.” Agent Prentiss leaned back against her desk, hip cocked against it. “I resented the implication that you being picked _for_ me presented after Agent Morgan retired from our team. As far as I’m aware, you hadn’t even applied for the job.” There was a challenge here. Hotch judged whether she wanted him to rise to it or not.

He assumed she did. She didn’t seem the type to bait and switch.

“Then, why am I here and not one of your choices?” he asked, and wondered if this was it. The foot in mouth moment that would see him out of the door before he had a chance to warm his seat. Back to Seattle, and the apartment that wasn’t big enough for just him, let alone him _and_ a seventy plus pound squirrel masquerading as his dog.

That smile again. Where _had_ he seen that smile before?

“I read your file,” she said, which wasn’t really an answer, because if she’d decided against him from the get-go, why would she bother? “I don’t underestimate people, Agent. Now. Come meet the team.”

He followed her from the office. _Guess this is the beginning of something,_ he thought absently, hooking his fingers firmer around the box of his supplies.

He was right.


	47. Eucatastrophe - April, 2015

“Aaron Hotchner, the team. The team, Aaron Hotchner.” Agent Prentiss did this introduction with a grin and a wave of her hand, and five heads swivelled around to stare at him. He looked at four of those faces, at the warm smiles flickering around the room. Then, he looked at the fifth, which wasn’t right, because he was pretty sure that he’d looked at the fifth first and his brain had just refused to process.

“… and this is Dr. Lewis, and last but certainly not least, Dr. Reid. Our resident genius and sweater-vest connoisseur.” Agent Prentiss was still cheerfully listing his new team members, and Hotch had managed to miss every one of them except the final two. “… Who you appear to know.”

Spencer stood, brushing a lock of hair out of his eyes and extending his hand. “We’ve met,” he said, his cheeks flushing ever so slightly in the cool lighting of the room. Hotch groaned inwardly as the trained profilers surrounding them noted that flush and tucked it away for further reference. “Welcome to the team, Agent Hotchner.”

“Just Hotch,” he said firmly, and took the hand for a firm handshake. Spencer’s hand, oddly, was dry and steady. There was a pulse of blood thumping in Hotch’s ears, a soft rush of something in his chest that pulled it tight. _You expected this_ , Hotch realized, studying the other man’s set features. _Well then._ “Thank you.”

For some reason, the handshake seemed to be of even more interest than the flush to the rest of the team.

And, in a heartbeat of time, the pressure on his palm vanished, the hand withdrew, and Hotch stepped back to turn to the rest of his new teammates, feeling knocked off kilter. Managing his reactions to seem unperturbed was one thing; managing the slow drop of emotion in his gut was another. Spencer, to his credit, seemed unbothered, turning to the blonde woman next to him with a smile as she stepped forward to take his place.

_Jennifer Jareau_ , _please call me JJ,_ she introduced herself as, and there was a steely-cold gaze to her eyes that was betrayed by the soft curl to her lips. There was a kindness there that Agent Prentiss didn’t _lack_ , but definitely didn’t outwardly exude like Agent Jareau did.

_David Rossi_ , was next, and Hotch knew him. The smile on his face was real and a little star-struck as he shook the hand of the man who had made this career possible. “I must say,” Rossi remarked, and Hotch remembered seeing him sitting in the crowd of numerous courts, just watching. Taking notes in a small book, his eyes on Hotch. “I miss seeing you at the counsel table, agent. It was always a pleasure to know the scumbags we caught were heading your way… your prosecution rates were impressive.”

“Maybe,” Hotch commented, “but I’d rather be here, stopping them before they need that prosecution. I’m not really made to ride a desk.”

Rossi seemed pleased by this.

Penelope Garcia was a whirlwind of colours and words and feelings, and he wasn’t feeling quite sure enough about any of them to comment on her, and Dr. Tara Lewis was polite but distant. With a warm smile and a cool demeanour, she stood back shoulder to shoulder with Spencer and just watched. “Lewis, could you show Agent Hotchner to his desk?” Agent Prentiss was saying, leaning over to examine the tablet JJ held up to her, mouth thin. “We may have a case this afternoon, depending on how JJ’s communication with the locals goes. Did you pack a go-bag, Agent Hotchner?”

He smiled in return. “I was with Seattle for two years, ma’am,” he said politely, seeing her wince on the _ma’am_. Agent Rossi made a noise that, on anyone less renowned, Hotch would have called a snort. “… I brought a bag.”

“I’ll take him,” Spencer piped up, lurching forward and almost toppling the chair he was standing behind. “I mean… he’s across from me, I might as well… take… him.” He coughed.

“Yes,” Agent Prentiss said slowly, dark eyes ticking from one to the other. “You… might as well. You want to steer clear of the coffee while you’re down there too? I think you’ve hit quota for the day.”

Hotch blinked. The beaming expression Spencer shot her in return for the quip was alive and _real_. Delighted.

Genuine.

_Huh_ , he thought, looking around the room once more as Spencer skittered around him to the door, and he recognised the feeling that hung heavy between each and every one of them, except himself. _Friendship._

That was something Seattle had never had.

“Come on,” Spencer said, tugging the door open and slipping out. “We do things a bit differently from Seattle here, I think. I’ll show you around.”

 

* * *

 

Hotch followed Spencer quietly as the man showed him around with, at first, awkward reticence and then, as he warmed to his subject, joyful exuberance.

“So, profiling, huh?” Spencer said suddenly, whirling from an incredibly detailed explanation of the architectural structure of the building and back to the subject of Hotch with dizzying speed. “That’s a surprise. You, ah, never seemed… well, you were so _set_ on law. When I found out you’d joined the FBI…”

“You found out?” Hotch asked, cocking an eyebrow. They’d made their meandering way to the small kitchenette set just off of the bullpen, Spencer’s fingers trailing thoughtfully over the neat countertop battered by generations of mugs and pots. “Keeping tabs on me, Spence?”

There was a visible tense in the muscles of Spencer’s wrist. _Bare arms,_ Hotch noted, eyeing the way the other man had the sleeves of his button-down rolled all the way past his elbows, his sweater-vest tight against a chest that was a lot broader than it used to be. Hotch noted this, filed it away, and ignored the soft whisper of _ohh_ that hummed from his eyes to between his hips, sent on its way by a sudden desire to know what else about the other man had changed.

“We should perhaps not flaunt our prior… what we were,” Spencer said, turning on the place nervously, slinging his hands into his pockets. “It could become complicated quickly, considering we’re now a part of a team where unity is absolutely integral.”

Hotch nodded. It was a valid point. “Absolutely,” he agreed, pushing that warm feeling down deeper and burying it under layers and layers of practised professionality. It wasn’t like he’d never worked with anyone he was supremely attracted to before. And he didn’t want to overstep on his first day. The silence that stalled between them was paused and curious, coated with these thoughts. “Spen… Reid,” he said finally, meeting the eyes that flickering up to examine him. “Did you put my file on your unit chief’s desk?”

Spencer blinked in surprise, mouth slipping open before he chuckled. “No,” he said, and the awkwardness vanished. Hotch relaxed. “I put your file on _Rossi’s_ desk. He knew you already—by your merits, not my understanding of your merits. He had his eye on you anyway, especially after Connors.” He said it so casually it almost avoided Hotch’s notice, before thudding back down into his brain. _Connors._

Words failed him for a moment. Spencer had turned his back, reaching for the kettle with his right hand, his left hooked over the countertop. Hotch glanced down at that sedate hand, the casual lay of his fingers, just for something to focus on as his traitorous mouth said, “You told them about…?”

Spencer paused. The kettle clicked as he flicked it on and withdrew his hand, his chest shifting as he breathed in tightly. “Yes,” he said finally, and rapped his fingers on the countertop as though nervous, despite his expression being calm. “Years ago. One of the team… suffered a similar assault. My experience became useful in asserting that my opinion of him hadn’t been changed by his admittance of that.”

The warm feeling was back. Warm and pressing, reminding him that people _could_ heal, even if they only took the steps to doing so in order to help others. A smile turning his mouth upwards even without his permission, despite the fact that smiles generally weren’t something he placed a lot of stock into in his day to day life, Hotch saw Spencer register the smile and relax slightly. “That’s a big step, Spence,” he murmured, and it didn’t feel like twelve years had passed between them anymore. It didn’t feel… different. “I’m proud.”

“That’s what Elle said, when I told her,” Spencer replied evenly, and Hotch winced. Couldn’t help but dart a look at the hand on the counter. The… bare hand. When he looked back up again, Spencer was watching him closely. “Separated,” he said, without waiting for Hotch to ask, and now his face was blank. Restrained. “Eight… eight years now. She’s moved around quite a bit since then, following work. I believe she’s in New Orleans, currently. Doing well for herself.” He coughed, before adding, “I’m happy for her,” in an undertone.

Eight years.

He was separated during the court case.

“You were wearing a ring at Connors’ prosecution,” Hotch said, fumbling his voice and feeling it shake slightly. Like he’d been taking cautious steps from _okay, I can work with you_ to _we could probably be friends_ and now he was facing a man who wasn’t as unassailable as he’d first thought. A man he’d avoided coming into contact with purely for the pain the sight of that glint of gold caused.

“Yeah.” Spencer grinned nervously, running his fingers through his shaggy hair. “Ah. That was… me being childish, I guess. I knew Connors would see me there. And it was some visible representation that he hadn’t damaged me beyond recognition, that I was still of some worth. I couldn’t display my work or my friendships as blatantly as I could a wedding ring.”

It was the perfect place to back away, to leave off. To not push this tentative thing that they had going.

Hotch could be stupid, sometimes.

“So, Elle,” he said, and felt his throat pinch around the word. “You, err, married Elle?”

“Aaron…” Spencer said, his shoulder stiff. “I don’t think we need to…”

The door banged open, startling them both. “Wheels up, buckos,” Agent Rossi boomed, bursting in. “We’ve got a case!” He vanished as quickly as he’d arrived, grinning cheekily. Like he’d expected to interrupt something and was pleased he’d done so.

“Wheels up?” Hotch managed, as Spencer nodded and began to follow him.

“It’s just something he says,” Spencer said absently, holding the door open. “Come on. We’ll grab your stuff. Do you need to call anyone?”

“Just about my dog,” Hotch replied, reaching for his phone, and he didn’t miss the excited/surprised glance back that Spencer shot him, making a mental note to show the man the photos of Halcyon he still had on his phone. “Dog sitter will pick her up for me.”

Spencer’s smile was wide and went a long way to fixing any missteps they’d made.

 

* * *

 

And then there was watching him work. Hotch realized, on that first long, gruelling case, that he didn’t know Spencer Reid at all. Not as the boy he’d been or the man who’d lost his way.

Not as the man he was now, who was probably who he was supposed to have been all along.

There was a gun holstered on his hip at an odd front-carry that frightened Hotch as much as it (and he’d never admit this) turned him on. He was both frighteningly eager and downright terrified of the day he’d see the man hold that gun, in his agile, magician hands.

In front of a map, he was a focused, intense stranger. In front of a room of police officers, he was confident and self-assured. With victims and their families, he was soft and reassuring. With their unsubs, he was… cold. Cold, and still somehow reassuring.

Hotch couldn’t process all this, not when he himself was absolutely focused on doing the job that took everything he had and more to do properly. But, late at night, curled in a hotel single with Rossi snoring across the room from him… he processed. And he wondered. And he realized. This wasn’t his Spencer. This wasn’t the boy from Rhosgobel or the man from Velvet Underground. This was someone entirely new.

And he couldn’t wait to learn him all over again. One more time.

The team impressed Hotch, and he suspected he’d managed to impress them as well by the end of the case. He got to see Spencer hold his weapon. It was everything he’d feared/desired, and he’d be quite happy to never see it again as well as certain that if he did, it would be because Spencer had his back. He went home exhausted and absolutely certain that maybe, just maybe, he’d stumbled accidentally into his place in the world, the one spot he could be sure to make a difference, no matter what happened.

“I need to shower,” he grumbled to Halcyon, flopped on the couch still in his suit with the dog pretending she wasn’t slowly oozing her way onto his chest, blue eyes locked on his face with every cautious otter-wiggle forward. “I need to sleep. And shower. And call the mechanics to get the damn car looked at so I don’t have to spend twenty minutes trying to start the thing while Spencer lectures me about the history of the hybrid vehicle.”

“Owwoo,” said Hal comfortingly, and gave up on being subtle. She scrambled, fell, and heaved herself onto his chest, throwing herself down with a grunt he mirrored and a happy little sigh, her muzzle on his chin.

“Owwo to you too,” he sighed, and scratched the muzzle that was more white than grey these days. He studied it, and the single blue eye that was filming in one corner, threatening to spread. “Stop getting old,” he asked her softly. “Please?”

She yawned, blasting doggy breath into his face, and went to sleep.

Dumbass.

_Ba-doop_ chirped his phone. He wiggled around, arching his neck back to look at it. “Move?” he asked Hal, who snored. “Gah.” _Ba-doop_ said the phone again. He reached, straining the muscles in his arm and feeling his button-down cut into his shoulder blade because of the awkward angle. Finally managed to brush his fingers against it, tugging it close. Let it drop into his palm and brought it back to lean against Hal’s muzzle as he opened the inbox.

**_Spencer Reid_ **

**_> Did you get your car fixed? S.R._ **

**_Not yet. I was going to call them tonight, but Hal has decided to sleep on me <_ **

**_> Oh, Halcyon. If only everyone’s wishes were as simple to grant. Would you like me to pick you up in the morning? It’s no trouble. S.R._ **

Hotch ignored the warm feeling goading him forward, quickly replying that _that would be wonderful, thank you_ and wishing the other man a good night. “See,” he told Halcyon. “It’s fine that he’s on my team. That we’re working together. What we were was years and years ago and he’s had Elle and probably others and we’re not…”

_Ba doop_.

**_> It’s no problem. It was really good seeing you today. You’re really looking well, compared to when we saw each other last. S.R._ **

He lingered over that. “We’re not caught up on the past,” he finally finished, tracing his thumb over the keypad until it vibrated again and almost slid off of the dog’s nose.

**_> Do you mind me texting you? I wanted to ask about how you were enjoying work, but you left so quickly. If you mind, I can stop. S.R._ **

**_No, no. I don’t mind at all. The work isn’t fun, but it’s… it’s hard to explain. I think I’d need a lot more message space to do so than my phone allots me. It’s not the kind of work I ever expected to find you doing. <_ **

Hal opened her eyes and gave him the most _what are you doing_ glare he’d ever received from a dog. In reply, he shifted the phone in front of her eyes so she couldn’t judge him, tilting it horizontally and waiting for a reply while silently reassuring himself he wasn’t _actually_ staring at his phone waiting for it to hum.

**_> It’s not the kind of work I ever expected of myself either. But it’s… freeing, in a sense. We see awful things, but we also stop awful things, and I think that’s the appeal. But there’s something else to it, I can’t verbalize? S.R._ **

**_It’s a puzzle. You love puzzles <_ **

**_> Do you know me so well you can state that with such confidence? S.R._ **

**_Sorry, that was rude of me. I shouldn’t presume <_ **

His cell fell silent and Hotch grit his teeth and pretended he wasn’t actually a secret twelve-year old girl. And continued gritting them. And continued.

And crumpled.

**_I didn’t mean to upset you <_ **

**_> No, no. I’m not upset. I’m trying to find words. I mean, pare down the words I’ve found. I have a lot of words, too many words, and I need to compact them so I don’t intimidate you. S.R._ **

**_You’ve never intimidated me <_ **

**_Don’t ever make yourself smaller for my benefit <_ **

**_Please <_ **

**_> May I call you? S.R._ **

Hotch stared at his phone, then at his dog, then at his phone again. “What am I doing, Hal?” he asked hopefully, almost expecting an answer. Remarkably, she didn’t give one.

**_Yes, please <_ **

He woke in the morning, still in his clothes from the night before, the phone slipping from his hand. There was a single message on the screen.

**_> You fell asleep but, this was lovely. Thank you. Goodnight. S.R._ **

It wasn’t a mistake.


	48. Eucatastrophe - May, 2015

They had a bad case. Hotch had had bad cases before, in Seattle, and this one was no different. Just as awful, just as soul-draining. They all left a part of themselves behind in that Floridian precinct, and Spencer was withdrawn. Hotch had seen it all before, the coping mechanisms people used to deal with cases like this; cases that ended with three child-sized coffins and one of their team facing the mountain of paperwork it took to be recertified after discharging their weapon with the intension of causing a fatally. Spencer, this time, standing over a body with his face blank and blood on his shirt (spatter-back) and on his face (the bullet that clipped his ear as it whizzed past). Hotch regretted it was Spencer who’d had to pull the trigger, but he didn’t regret that the trigger was pulled.

Spencer could have died, and Hotch hadn’t even been there to see it or stop it or in any way influence it at all. That was… an uneasy thought.

There was a pattern that people took when recovering from a case like this. Certain people—Prentiss, Rossi—seemed to brush it off. They internalized and dealt with it later, out of sight or years from now. Others—Lewis—got angry and sad at the time and left that all behind when the case ended. Others, and this was a smaller subset that almost entirely consisted of those who somehow _resonated_ with the case in some way, brooded.

Spencer was brooding. JJ, too. Hotch watched them and he wondered… JJ was obvious enough, she had children at home.

What about this case had struck home with Spencer?

“Come out for drinks,” Prentiss said, stopping by his desk and peering down at the paperwork he was filling out. “If you come, Reid will come. If you don’t, he’ll go home and pace a hole in his living room carpet.”

Hotch looked up at her. “That’s a bit manipulative, isn’t it?” he asked, his chair creaking as he leaned back. “You’ve now laid responsibility for Reid’s wellbeing solely on my shoulders.”

She shrugged and laughed. “They’re broad enough,” she teased, her eyes worried despite her light tone, and strode away. “And I don’t think you mind, really.”

He didn’t.

“They’ve changed coffee brands again,” Spencer said glumly, walking to their desks with two mugs balanced in his hands. “Why do they feel the need to do this to me? I don’t like _change_.”

“Come out tonight,” Hotch said, ignoring Spencer’s doe-eyed misery that probably wasn’t that much about the coffee. He put that much sugar in anyway, there was serious doubt that he was even tasting the coffee. “The team wants to have drinks.”

Spencer scowled. “Emily put you up to this, didn’t she?” he grumbled, slinking into his chair and hunching down, finger trailing to rim of his cup and eyes swollen-purple with exhaustion. “I’m tired, Hotch. I just want to sleep. And I have to be back early tomorrow for my psyc. eval.”

If Hotch believed for a moment he was planning on going home to sleep, he would have let him. “Just a few hours,” he coaxed, and Spencer sighed and caved. “Good. There’s a bar near my place—it’s nice, peaceful. And between here and your house. I’ll tell them to meet us there.”

At least this way, by the time Spencer made it home, he _would_ actually sleep.

 

* * *

 

They made two hours before the yawns started to slip onto tired faces, and Hotch was feeling about as drained as everyone else was looking. When JJ murmured something about getting home to her kids and disappeared, he was quick to follow. Spencer, oddly, also followed.

“You’re walking?” he asked, stepping out of the bar door and down the steps with two light leaps, hair bouncing with the easy movement. It also overbalanced him, Hotch flinging out an arm to stop him from over-shooting and ending up on the road. Sober, the both of them, only two beers in, but clumsy anyway. “Want a lift?”

The night was cool, easy, and clean. Mostly that last thing. It wasn’t anything like Florida or the case, and Hotch wanted to enjoy that. “No, thank you,” he said politely, hyper-focused on the brush of his fingers across Spencer’s shirtfront as he withdrew his hand. “I think I really need the walk.” Nearby, sirens wailed, a dog barked. He heard something clatter up the street, metallic and hollow. A couple of people walking in a group on the sidewalk paused in their conversation and glanced at the noise, before continuing on their way.

“Oh.” Spencer awkwardly shuffled his feet, mouth twitching. “Um. Well. Want me to walk you home?”

Hotch couldn’t help it, he chuckled. “Going to defend my honour?” he teased, but stepped into line with the other man anyway and nudged their shoulders together. They started off, falling into pace with each other as easily as if they’d never fallen out, their hands in their pockets and shoulders straight.

“If it needs defending,” Spencer replied pertly. His gait was strange, almost sloping, and Hotch found himself mimicking it unconsciously in an attempt not to swerve into each other.

Spencer yawned. They were two blocks from Hotch’s apartment building, about to round the corner, having travelled mostly in comfortable silence.  “Rough case,” Hotch said suddenly, watching him out of his peripheral vision. “You okay? It’s always tough, when it ends like that.”

“I’m not upset about shooting Waters,” Spencer replied softly, his gaze fixed ahead. “He would have shot me if I hadn’t, successfully, and possibly overpowered Lewis. I made the right call.”

“He fired on you first,” Hotch agreed, making sure to step closer to him. A show of companionability. “But that doesn’t make it easier to take a life. And you’re… sad. Fretting over something. I can see it, you’re doing that thing where your big, complicated brain makes your face all empty as it chases itself in circles.”

Spencer looked at him oddly. “You pay too much attention to my micro-expressions,” he said with a deep, low chuckle. “It’s disconcerting being profiled by a man who knows me so—” He stopped, eyes widening.

“So, what?” Hotch teased, his focus locked on the other man as they rounded the corner, and maybe that was why he didn’t immediately register the flicker of blue-red on the street around them.

“Aaron,” Spencer said, looking to him and forward again. “Isn’t that your building?” Hotch turned. And stared. At the firetrucks circling the front, the crowds of residents, of onlookers. The smoke and the soot and the ghastly blue light on dozens of pale faces tilted up to where water was pumping against the flame-streaked sides of his home.

It took a second to sink in.

But when it did, it hammered home.

“Hal!” he yelled, and sprinted forward, counting the floors up to where there were still flames dancing within the windows. It was stupid, really, because there was no way he’d be allowed in there, no way he could get to her, but his brain was fixed with the image of her scratching at the door, trapped, howling, _burning._ Feet thumped behind him as Spencer followed, but he was frantic, looking for a face he recognised. Counted the floors again.

It was the floor above his.

“My dog,” he stammered, tugging on the building manager’s coat. He turned and looked at him, eyes wide and shocked, but Hotch couldn’t think to process anyone’s panic other than his own right now. “My dog—my dog is in my apartment. Did everyone get out? Did they evacuate?” His professional side warring with his personal side, hearing Spencer querying the same of two police officers standing back.

“Aaron!” Spencer. Hotch turned, numb, the manager just shrugging him away, and saw the man gesturing to him. Walked blankly towards him.

Saw the policeman leaning against his car with the miserable dog in his arms.

“Hal!” Hotch breathed, and lurched forward to his stupid animal. The cop was laughing, his uniform and her grey fur both black-marked as he handed the gangly dog over. “Oh god, you ridiculous thing. I thought…”

“Don’t worry,” the cop said, and Spencer was grinning despite the horror behind them, their eyes burning. “Manager hit the fire alarm fast. We had time to evacuate, and he alerted us to the units with animals. This lady caused a bit of a fuss, though. Howling her poor head off and wouldn’t move a muscle. Ended up having to carry her out in case your ceiling came in.”

“Yeah,” Hotch murmured, readjusting his grip on the heavy canine, unwilling to put her down quite yet. Mouth tucked against her damp head, he breathed in the musky doggy scent of her and thanked anyone who was fucking listening for the municipal fire department. “She can’t walk down stairs anymore, and she’s… not a fan of strangers.” Halcyon, to her credit, licked the officer’s fingers as he gave her one last pat and wandered away to see if he could help, as the flames died down and the firemen moved in to assess the damage done.

The next hour was a blur. Spencer sat on the curb with Halcyon’s head in his lap, patting the dog while Hotch tried to find out just how much they’d lost.

_I’ll call you_ , the manager said finally. _We just don’t know yet. Find a hotel, somewhere to stay, and we’ll work out the legalities after._ Hotch staggered back over to his teammate feeling wrung out and stared down at them.

“You can’t stay at a hotel,” Spencer said, his voice distant. “You’re done in, Aaron. And you’ll never find one this late that will take Halcyon too.” Hotch shrugged, shifting his go-bag on his shoulder, mind tiredly ticking over the possibilities as Spencer continued, “…come on. Just come home with me. You can sleep and regroup in the morning.”

What?

“Pardon?” he said, blinking himself steady and meeting that hazel-dark gaze. “Stay with you?”

Spencer nodded, standing. Someone had given him a rope to tie around Hal’s collar, looped loosely around his hand. “You need sleep,” he said, using that hand to touch Hotch’s arm. “And Halcyon is stressed and needs a drink. Please?”

Hotch nodded once, and then again, firmer that time. It was a good idea. Best of a bad situation, yes. “Okay,” he agreed huskily, his throat aching, and followed Spencer silently back to his car, their dog limping slowly by their sides.

 

* * *

 

Spencer’s apartment was unexpected. It was small, but cosy. Clean. Most surprisingly, with Hotch’s memories of the empty room the Spencer of old had simply existed in, it was _cluttered_. There was an ornate desk scattered with papers and files, there was an overflowing bookshelf. No photos, but plenty of odd little knick-knacks and curios. A couch covered in bedding that Spencer blushed when Hotch looked at and self-consciously tried to tidy. Halcyon immediately found her way to the bathroom, where she ate a bar of soap while Spencer was showing Hotch how to work the thermostat.

“Sorry,” Hotch said with a groan, holding Hal’s jaws open while Spencer tried not to laugh and picked bits of soap out of her teeth. “She… does that.”

“You’re an awful dog parent,” Spencer teased. “Where’s the discipline, Aaron?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “She probably ate it, too.”

Then there was settling her in, remaking the couch so Hotch could sleep, showers for them both to wash the smoke from their eyes and hair, and by the time they were wound down, morning was slithering through the heavy curtains. Spencer pulled them tighter before slipping away down the hall to the three closed doors down there, one of which Hotch assumed was his bedroom.

“I’ll call Emily on my way to work,” he called back softly, as Hotch struggled to stay awake long enough to listen, curled on the surprisingly comfortable couch that smelt like Spencer. “I’ll let her know what happened and that you might be late while you deal with things.”

“Thanks, Spence,” he tried to call after, but he also might have fallen asleep without saying a word.

And snapping awake what felt like minutes later to his cell shrieking at him. The building manager. Hotch tiredly took notes on a nearby legal pad, his brain still grating and entirely unsure of where he was or what was happening or where his damn dog was. He hung up without really processing a single word, and stared down at the accusing _considerable water damage, structural damage, two-four weeks to process and repair. Compensation???_

“Damn,” he mumbled, scrubbing his knuckles into his gritty eyes, and staggered up to go and heave his dog out of Spencer’s bed where she’d wriggled into the warm spot he’d left behind.

Work wasn’t much better. They were both exhausted, picking slowly over the paperwork of the case. Even Spencer’s pen was sluggish and neither stacks in their respective inboxes went down quickly. Prentiss was sympathetic, JJ fussing. Rossi made jokes and, then, when Spencer slipped away to the photocopier, quietly offered Hotch the use of his spare bedroom and wardrobe if his own belongings were ruined beyond salvation. Hotch didn’t quite know how properly express his gratitude for the unexpected offer, but, judging by Rossi’s warm smile, he managed to well enough.

It hit him about two p.m., what he was up against.

“What’s wrong?” Spencer asked, glancing up at him. The bullpen was mostly empty, half the teams out on rotation and Lewis working on a file with Prentiss in her office.

“I have no clothes,” Hotch said, looking down at the outfit he was wearing. “Beyond what I have in my go-bag. My laptop, my correspondence, important documents… most of it was still in boxes in my office, cardboard boxes. It will be… oh god.” He dropped his head into his hands, groaning. A hand brushed his shoulder, rubbing comfortingly.

Their letters. Their letters would be…

“It’s alright,” Spencer said softly, standing by his side. “We’ll work it out. You’ve got us to help.”

It didn’t really make it better, but it did help.

 

* * *

 

A week passed in that frustrating mid-point between action and reaction. Nothing could be done about the apartment until it was assessed, and since it wasn’t directly damaged by the fire, it was last on the list to be so. He went shopping, managed to find some clothes that didn’t look like he’d been sleeping in them and replaced Halcyon’s bowls and toys and leash, much to Spencer’s delight.

“Dog toys are _fantastic_ ,” he’d said happily, chasing Halcyon and her new turkey squeaky toy in ambling circles around the living room. “This one is a pumpkin. A squeaky pumpkin!” He squeaked it for emphasis, and Hotch just rolled his eyes and went back to pouring over insurance paperwork.

It might have been a weird, frustrating mid-point, but it wasn’t all awful. There was waking up to Spencer brewing coffee, or waking before Spencer and making breakfast. There was the comfort of having someone to come home to, something he hadn’t realized he’d missed until he had it again. There was eating dinner and having another person to share it with, instead of a lonely meal for one with leftovers cooling in Tupperware containers on the counter.

_Bzzt._ Spencer’s cell hummed on the table, as he picked at the pasta he’d cooked for them on this night. Hotch watched his face as he wrestled with a forkful, noting a nervous line to the other man’s mouth. _Bzzt_ said the cell again, jittering closer to his hand.

“Sorry,” Spencer said, stopping midway through a rambling spiel about family annihilators and picking it up. Hotch kept quietly eating his pasta as Spencer tapped out a reply and returned to the conversation at hand, his mind idly drifting over everything he had to do this weekend. They’d finally been cleared to re-enter the building, so he could go back tomorrow and see what could be saved… _Bzzt_.

“You’re popular,” Hotch said, his train of thought derailed. Spencer _hmmed_ non-committedly, his tone strained. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no,” he said, tapping at the phone, mouth down-turned. “I’m just… I’m supposed to go… out. Go out, tonight, but I forgot to cancel and she’s—”

“She?” Aaron teased, his fork clattering on his plate as he ignored the weird drop in his stomach. “A date, Spence?”

Spencer was quiet. “Yes,” he said finally, dropping his phone to the table. “I just… I don’t know how to get out of it without sounding rude, I’ve left it too late…”

Hotch swallowed. “Well, why are you cancelling?” he said. Ignoring the grumpy voice in the back of his brain that had been half-hoping for a quiet night in with some movies, or a book, just the two of them… “Why not go?”

_Bzzt_ went the cell. They both looked at it.

“I don’t want to leave you here by yourself,” Spencer said finally. “You’ll be bored.”

Hotch chuckled at that. “Spence, I’m pretty sure I’m capable of entertaining myself,” he joked, standing to collect their empty plates and moving over to the sink. Warm water bubbled over his fingers as he rinsed them clean, his back to Spencer so he didn’t have to see his facial expressions. “Seriously, go. You shouldn’t change your plans just because I’m here—I don’t want to influence you at all. It’s already enough of an imposition that I’m here in the first place.” A horrible thought struck him, and it was only years of experience keeping his reactions controlled that stopped him from wincing. “Ah… you know. I don’t mind… I can go out if you had. Plans with her. I realize I was expecting you to go out, but that’s not…”

Spencer shot him a weird look as his brain tried to puzzle over what Hotch was stammering about. The exact moment he worked it out was visible, as Hotch turned and watched his face go from perplexed to bright red, mouth dropping open. “Oh no, ah, no, it’s not… not that kind of date, I mean, it might? It might have been that kind of date but we weren’t planning anything and um, no… no. I’m not… bringing her here.” He rattled to a stop, breathing deeply, before blinking and adding quickly, “Or going there. To her… I’m not, with her. At all.”

“Spence.” Hotch cut him off before he could ramble himself out of oxygen, holding his hands up in a placating motion. “It’s okay. Whatever you had planned, it’s okay. Just… go ahead. Do it. I could use an early night anyway, and I know that will inconvenience you.”

Spencer studied him carefully, his fingers tapping on his screen. “Okay,” he said finally. He stood, walking over to Hotch and reaching for a dishcloth to help with the dishes, their arms brushing together. Hotch shivered. “Thanks, Aaron.”

 

* * *

 

He found Spencer in the bathroom shaving, his jawline foamy and neck arched back. Hotch blinked. Teetered awkwardly in the doorway. Tried to ignore the fact that there was only one shirt in the room, and it wasn’t on Spencer.

“You okay?” Spencer asked, tilting his head around to peer at Hotch. Hotch just stared back, trying to find a way to say _sure yes okay please stay_ without actually saying any of that. Because he wanted Spencer to go on this date. Absolutely.

He’d wanted it more before he’d gotten bored with his book and walked in here, stupidly.

“Err,” he said, and realized he was quite openly staring at a thin line of shaving cream and water trailing down Spencer’s throat and across his collarbone, down his chest… “Yes.”

“Yes,” Spencer repeated, one eyebrow raised, and continued shaving, drawing the razor over his chin in long, even swipes before wiping his face clean with a warm, damp towel. Hotch coughed, leaning against the door, feeling a bit like a creeper, but Spencer smiled when he glanced at him. “Plans for the night?”

“Not really,” Hotch replied. Spencer turned towards the sink, and Hotch examined his shoulders, his bare back, the curve of his spine right down to the low waist of his pants… the thin suggestion of a scar on his bicep, one that curled right along it where something had punched through the skin. “Just reading…” Spencer had turned back to move towards the door, and Hotch’s gaze had dropped. Face flushing, he skittered it back up to the other man’s face, well aware that there was no way Spencer had missed him quite openly examining the suggestion of fine hair scattered across his belly leading lower. “… ahh. DVD, perhaps. Sleep…” There was foam by Spencer’s ear, caught on a damp curl. “You missed a spot.”

“Hmm?” Spencer glanced into the foggy mirror, his expression oddly distracted and a hint of heat at the high points of his cheeks. Probably from the shower. Probably. He was quite capable of getting it off himself. Quite capable.

Hotch stepped into the bathroom, heart thumping and half-hard, and trapped that foamy thread of hair between two fingers to wipe it clean. His fingers trailed across Spencer’s neck, catching his ear, neither breathing.

“Thanks,” Spencer said suddenly, looking at him. Their faces were close. Far too close. His breath was mint-sweet and warm on Hotch’s mouth. Hotch stepped back and tried to ignore the obvious dilution of the other man’s pupils, letting his hand fall back. Fingertips tingling.

Spencer’s gaze dropped and his throat shifted. He was definitely red now, spreading across his chest, and Hotch dimly noted that slacks weren’t exactly great at concealment, knowing his breathing was audible in the quiet, muted room. “Aaron,” he mumbled, eyelids hooded. Hotch said nothing, frozen. A step brought them closer again. _Aaron,_ again, a whisper this time, and Hotch closed his eyes. Felt the warm press of a body moving in, a hand brushing his shirt, lips almost touching. Almost. He breathed out in a ragged hiss that Spencer mirrored, a nose bumping his. So fucking tense he could feel the throb of heat working down his body to settle between his hips.

_Bzzt_ and they both jumped, Hotch swearing as his elbow slammed into the doorframe.

“I need to, I’m, ah… late,” Spencer stammered, stumbling back. Hotch nodded briskly, straightening to let him past.

Glanced down as he did and shuddered with the shock-jolt of heat that slammed down his spine and straight to his dick at the obvious tenting marring the line of Spencer’s dress pants.

He didn’t say anything as Spencer raced around getting ready, shouting out instructions on how to get the temperamental DVD player to work and grumbling about his tie. Just sat on the couch, feeling frustrated and worked up for no reason, until the door banged shut behind Spencer’s hurried _bye, see you later,_ and left him alone with the dog and his thoughts. Neither looked each other in the eye as he did so.

“I’m fine,” he told Hal as he plugged his phone into charge with a _boop_ that echoed through the silent apartment. _I’m fine_ , he told himself, as he paced around and tried to work out the tension in his limbs with movement. _Completely fucking fine_ , he thought sourly as he took her outside to use the bathroom and tried not to look too moody for the few passers-by who glanced at him.

And he was fine, until:

**_Spencer Reid_ **

**_> What are you up to? S.R._ **

“Go away,” he told the text, and then replied quickly in case Spencer had, somehow, heard him.

**_You should be focusing on your date. Don’t be rude. <_ **

**_> She’s in the bathroom. I’m not being rude. I’m taking the opportunity to check on my friend who I’m concerned about. What almost happened before, I’m worried it’s bothering you. S.R._ **

**_It’s not bothering me <_ **

It was bothering him. Just like that, he was back in the bathroom watching the razor slip over that pale throat once more, shaping the lines of it and leaving a red tinge of pressure behind.

Just like that, he was hard again.

“How do I say ‘you make me feel twenty-two again and not in the good way’?” he asked the dog, some part of him pointing out that he was talking far too much to the dog in a manner that seemed to expect she was going to answer. “Ah, fuck it.” Shower. Movie. Bed. There was a plan. He threw his cell aside, and bolted for the shower.

_Still fine_ , he reassured himself in the shower, as the water beat down against his bare back and he curled a hand around himself and desperately tried to think of anyone except his stupidly available-but-not-really ex and his stupid hair and his stupid chest and the stupid way his pants hung just _so_ from his thin hips… _still fine_ , one last time as he bit his lip and came into his palm in a gluggy mess, angry and shaking and relieved all at once as the tension drained away and left him just…

Sad, mostly.

His cell was silent when he dressed and padded out to the living room, the hair on the back of his neck prickling like it _knew_ what he’d done in his best friend’s apartment and was judging him for it. No messages. He glanced at the time. Eleven p.m. They wouldn’t still be out to dinner, and Spencer wasn’t home.

He swallowed, didn’t think about it, and fumbled with the DVD player. _It’s none of your business. He can fuck who he wants, when he wants, just like you can. You could you know. Just go out, find a guy, go home with him…_ Except he was pretty sure that if he did in his current frame of mind, he’d be doing it for entirely the wrong reason, and wasn’t _that_ a definite flashback to being twenty again.

The DVD player turned on with a loud _clunk_ of something inside whirring to life, auto playing whatever Spencer had been watching last while Hotch fumbled through the stack of DVDs in the TV cabinet, fingers clumsy and mind elsewhere. _It’s fine to be jealous, just not an ass about it…_ he was considering, right as Spencer laughed loudly above his head.

He jerked up, head whipping around to stare at the closed door and hair smacking wetly against his forehead with the speed of his movement, before slowly looking back at the TV and finding Spencer standing awkwardly there pulling a face at the camera.

Spencer in a tux.

“Piss off, Ethan,” he was saying, turning away from the weaving camera as it bobbed about to try and get him into frame. “You’re supposed to be filming Elle, not me.”

“Oh, she doesn’t look anywhere near as lovely in a tux,” Ethan’s voice rumbled from behind the lens, and Hotch blinked as the half-forgotten voice tripped into his ears and set off a chain of memories. “Stop moving around. You’ve got your jacket buttoned all crooked.” The camera dipped, lowered. Jumped to a different scene, hastily burnt onto the DVD. Spencer at the altar, looking green. Ethan standing beside him with one hand on his back, mouth moving inaudibly. Spencer nodded. The crowd rustled around the camera holder, the viewer swinging with it to—

Hotch leapt for the remote, accidentally dropping it. The DVD skipped forward with an angry sounding hum instead of ejecting.

“Come on, come on!” Spencer yelled, the camera jumping with his voice. “It’s not so hard! Musk oxen can walk within twenty minutes of their birth.” It stabilized, zoomed in on Elle crouched with her hair tied back in a messy pony-tail, looking up at him.

“He’s not a musk-ox, Spence,” she scolded, holding her arms out. “Come on, Jack. Show Daddy that you’re not a musk-ox.”

The camera shifted and Hotch’s heart stopped beating. Everything stopped, except the toddler with the focused face taking two stumbling steps and falling to his hands and knees with a squeak, his face scrunching. Elle swooped forward, picking him up.

“Aww, it’s alright,” Spencer said, the camera moving forward. “I fall over all time too, kiddo.”

The scene jumped. Hotch was frozen.

The same toddler, barely older, sitting on the newspaper-covered floor with Spencer, paint liberally coating their fingers. As Hotch watched, he smacked at Spencer’s knee, leaving a green stripe and bringing forth a bark of familiar laugher from Elle.

Another jump.

Elle and Spencer sitting at an unfamiliar house, on a porch swing. Filmed from across a yard, they weren’t looking at the camera. Their heads were tucked low, her resting on his shoulder. As Hotch watched, her mouth moved into a smile and the camera began to move forward slowly as the recorder began to walk. “Let’s scare them, Jackie,” murmured Ethan’s voice, and the camera moved to show the boy walking by his side with his fingers clinging grimly onto his hand. “Run up and say _boo_!”

“Boo,” repeated the boy with a giggle, and the camera moved back just in time to catch their mouths brushing together in a kiss that broke something inside Hotch’s chest, just a little. They were in love. It was… visible.

He hadn’t realized he’d doubted that until now.

The scene skipped once more, and someone made a noise. Not on the screen.

Hotch made a noise.

The recorder was standing back, in the doorway of a white-washed room. One wall painted with colourful animals, three beds. Two empty. Spencer was in the other, his son on his lap.

“Like this, see,” he was saying in a soft murmur that carried, shaping his fingers to cast shadow animals on the walls. “Here’s a rabbit… do they make a noise?”

“They bark,” the boy replied, his voice painfully hoarse. The camera moved closer, feet quiet on the linoleum floor. “Woof.”

“Not quite,” Spencer said with a soft huff of laughter, shaping his boy’s fingers to copy the rabbit. Hotch stared at the boy—Jack; stared at the brown-blonde curls tumbling around his face, the wide brown eyes, Elle’s sharp mouth.

At the shadows under those wide eyes, the chapped lips. The flush that was sickly adorable but ominous with the addition of one arm bandaged tightly to keep an IV drip in. He scratched at it, Spencer automatically moving his hand away. Three, maybe. He was three.

Hotch felt sick.

“Spencer, wait,” Elle said suddenly, sharply, moving forward in a rush. “His arm, look at his arm—” She moved the blanket, the red-swollen rash working down the chubby limb.

“I didn’t see that—” Spencer was saying, the camera facing the floor, moving around.

“No, of course you fucking didn’t, did you? You never _look_ —”

It scene jumped again, JJ with a birthday cake, and Hotch hit the back button.

Watched it once more.

Hit forward over and over and over again until it became obvious that this was a dump of miscellaneous phone videos, all showing Spencer getting older, time passing. No Elle. No Jack. A chunk of time missing in the interim.

He turned it off and climbed to his feet on shaking legs. Walked numbly down the hall, to the room he’d assumed was an office. Clicked the door open.

A child’s room. A child’s bed. Unmade, untouched. Piled with closed boxes and dust, the curtains half-open. Hotch leaned against the door, felt the paint catch on his shirt where it was chipped. Glanced down to find what had damaged it; a sign that had been pulled loose roughly and thrown to the side, taking the paint with it. Cracked down the middle from the force of the blow. He picked it up. Read it. Put it down carefully and backed away.

Spencer got home three hours later, slipping quietly past the couch where Hotch lay awake without saying a word. Hotch said nothing, just listened to his feet move up the hall, and felt like a coward.

He didn’t know how to ask.

He didn’t know if he could handle knowing.

Just closed his eyes, listened to the sound of Spencer getting ready for bed in the hushed apartment, and tried to push the image of that cracked and abandoned sign out of his mind. Those miserable two words.

_Jack’s Room_


	49. Eucatastrophe - June, 2015

“You’ve been acting odd.”

Hotch craned his neck back to look up at Spencer peering down at him, his hands behind his back and face set into an amused kind of confusion. “Hmm?” he asked, lowered his book onto his knees and shifting around on the couch to see his friend better.

Spencer shrugged, dodging around the couch to flop down next to him. “Withdrawn, almost?” he said, mouth twitching to the side, and the amusement vanished. “Ever since last weekend.”

“Oh.” Hotch picked at the cover of his book, his brain tripping once more over the dusty scent of a closed-in room and the feel of cracked wood under his fingers. “I’m just…”

“Is it because we almost kissed?” Spencer asked, staring resolutely at his knees. There was something in his hand, some plastic carry bag that rustled as he moved. “Because, I don’t regret that. And I’m not…”

“No, the almost kiss was fine,” Hotch said hurriedly. “Well, not fine…”

Spencer laughed, and the moment broke. “Well, I’m ordering dinner in,” he announced, and lifted the bag. Hal, hearing the crinkle of possible food, shot upright with her eyes begging and ears perked forward. “And I bought movies. So, we can celebrate us getting _two_ weekends in a row without a call-in in style. Do you know how rare this is? I keep feeling phantom vibrations in my pocket _expecting_ JJ to contact me.”

“Wonderful,” Hotch said, taking the bag and, at an excited glance from Spencer, withdrawing the contents. _Oh_. Lord of the Rings. All three movies. His breath caught, his fingers trailing on the shrink-wrapped covers. Spencer inched closer, almost bouncing with excitement.

“Found them on sale,” he was saying, leaning forward to look down at them. “Figured we could, you know… make up for lost time.” This last sentence was said in a wistful kind of voice, aching, and Hotch reacted without thinking and looked up towards that voice.

Their mouths met, gently. A slow, tender kiss that Spencer leaned into, sliding his knee up onto the couch. The book thumped from Hotch’s knee to the floor, forgotten. Guided back by the press of bodies and a smooth suggestion of hands, Hotch found himself canting backwards as the kiss deepened, becoming hungry and fast. They broke apart, panting. Spencer’s eyes were closed, his mouth pleased, and Hotch thought again of the room.

“That was fine,” he murmured, bringing his hand up to curl through the back of Hotch’s hair. “This is better…” Another kiss, just as hungry. Twice as desperate. Hotch tilted his body forward automatically with a rough groan as the other man slid onto his body, straddling him, his fingers digging coarsely through his hair and across his scalp. Bowed over him with their mouths as a single point of contact, Spencer’s knees on either side of Hotch’s hips.

_I fall over all the time too, kiddo_.

Hotch went rigid with the memory, and Spencer slithered off quickly with a _thumpf_. “Sorry, sorry,” he panted, cheeks flushed. “I… pushed. I pushed. Are you okay? God…” He scrubbed his hand over his mouth, inching around on the couch until he was sitting upright against Hotch sprawled longways. Hotch laid on his back, staring at the ceiling and trying to gather his scattered thoughts, his body confused and hot and throbbing in all the wrong places.

“I went in the room,” he said, the words falling from his mouth, and Spencer gave him a weird look that Hotch was pretty sure directly translated as _huh_? “Jack’s… Jack’s room.”

“Oh.” Spencer’s face had shifted, turned expressionless. The moment hung. Halcyon yawned, tail thumping on the floor. Against Hotch’s pelvic bone, Spencer’s cell _bzzt_ ed loudly, setting a weird itch up his torso. He wiggled away automatically, but Spencer didn’t move. “Ah. Yes. I was… going to mention that. When the time was right.” _Bzzt bzzzt_ , the cell complained as Spencer continued ignoring it.

“Maybe you should answer that,” Hotch suggested weakly, levering himself upright. “It could be important.”

Spencer shook his head slowly. The buzzing stopped. “JJ texts,” he said absently. “Mom’s doctors would call the landline first before my mobile. Um, Jack…”

“You have a son,” Hotch said, and then winced on the _have_.

The cell began to buzz again. Spencer twitched, irritated, and reached for it. “Yes, I do,” he murmured, scowling at it. _Blocked number_ was barely visible from Hotch’s position. “And he’s… sorry, I’m just going to... hello, you’ve reached Dr. Reid.” The DVDs slipped between them, digging into Hotch’s stomach as he rolled onto his side and glanced to the DVD player. “Sorry, who is this?”

“Hal, don’t,” Hotch scolded, as the dog took Spencer’s nervously jiggling leg as an invitation to come and lick him, knocking her muzzle away. “Leave him—”

“ _Jack_?!” Spencer bolted up, shock slamming onto his face. Hotch blinked. Processed that.

Took a breath for the first time in what was probably about a week.

“No, no, I’m not mad—I’m just surprised. Why would I be… where _are_ you? Why are you calling me?” Spencer was pacing, his free hand twitching by his side as though he wasn’t sure what to do. “ _How_ are you calling me?” Turning on his heel, he strode from the room with a panicked rustle, clattering in the kitchen drawers. Awkwardly, Hotch settled back onto the couch to wait, his hands on his mouth and heart in his throat. Not entirely sure if it was relief pressing down on him or shock or… something else. Something heavier that had been operating on the assumption that Elle wasn’t here because there was a grief too big to surpass between them.

Spencer reappeared, cell dark in his lowered hand, and doing what was very obviously an uncertain kind of jittering walk on the spot. Hotch could see what was clearly panic settling on him, and stood slowly, holding his hands out in a placating motion.

“Ah, my son is…” Spencer stopped. Mouth moving silently for a moment, before his brain caught up. “On a bus. To here. He won’t say where the bus is currently, although a cursory Google search will probably answer that so he’s really just _stalling_ , but he was careful to mention that his mother will be home from work…” He looked at his bare wrist blankly for a second, before swiping his finger on the phone to study the time. “…in seven minutes, five and a half if she doesn’t stop for a soda on the way. I’m assuming, from how much he stressed the timeframe, that I should probably expect a rather…” The landline rang shrilly. Spencer swallowed. And didn’t move towards it.

“You should probably…” Hotch offered, gesturing towards the phone. Spencer nodded. Slowly. And sat down heavily. “…are you okay?”

“I am,” Spencer began, his voice tight, “panicking a little. Bit.”

Little bit seemed generous. Even from Hotch’s awkward viewpoint, there was a white-edged kind of fright in the other man’s eyes, a whitish sort of sheen to his face as the blood drained away. He rubbed at his arms almost absently, gaze flickering around to the ringing phone right as the answering machine clicked in and Elle’s voice pierced the room with a rapid-pace, “Spencer, pick up the phone, _right now_ —”

Hotch picked up the phone. “Elle, hello—”

“Who the fuck is this?” Elle’s voice was painfully familiar, even though he’d never quite heard it like _this_ before. “Sorry, sorry, uh. I need to speak to Spencer, please, _now_.” The now was a threat if he’d ever heard one. A quick glance at Spencer showed him staring rather vacantly at Hotch, so Hotch made the choice to… not. Just yet.

“Ah, it’s Aaron. Aaron Hotchner.”

Quiet fell on the other end of the line, broken only by ragged breathing. “Hotchner, well. That’s unexpected,” she said finally, and he could hear her struggling to control her breathing. “Is Spencer there?”

“He’s indisposed,” Hotch said, right as Spencer slid up to his knees and held out his hand for the phone, complexion still ghastly. Hotch inched away. “Just… give him a sec.”

Spencer twitched his hand, frowning. Caving, Hotch handed him the phone.

“Elle,” he croaked, staggering upright and vanishing from the room, his voice becoming muffled. “He just called… yes. Yes, I’m aware… _did_ he? Oh, that’s actually really clever—no, no, I know. That’s absolutely not the point. I’m not _condoning_ what he’s done… Elle, I’m sorry, I misspoke, I know, yes…” Silence followed. Hal and Hotch sat motionless, unsure of how to react. “Okay. Look, I’ll pick him up from the bus station and put him on a plane home with compensation for the… yes I _know_ it’s not about the money, I know you’re not mad about the money… oh. I didn’t know…” Hotch winced as his friend’s voice abruptly sharpened, anger colouring it. “Yes, I’m very aware that I should know he’s scared of flying, we can add that to the list of ‘my failings as a father’ along with the… well don’t _dig_ at me and be surprised when I respond to that!”

A door slammed between them, cutting his voice off.

“I think we should probably go for a walk,” Hotch said quietly to Halcyon, reaching for her leash.

When they got back, Spencer was sitting at the kitchen table. “Jack will be here at seven a.m.,” he said softly as the door clicked shut behind them. “I’m going to pick him up and bring him here until Elle arrives to collect him.”

“Okay.” Hotch crept forward cautiously. “Would you like to talk?”

Spencer shook his head, standing up and walking away to his bedroom without another word.

 

* * *

 

Hotch woke up to a weak light glinting into his eyes and the soft sound of cups clattering in the kitchen.

“…do you want juice? Or… milk? Do you like milk?”

He slid upright, ruffling his hair so it wasn’t hopelessly flat against his head from being pressed against the arm of the couch, and slipped into the bright kitchen where Spencer was peering into his cupboards. A boy sat at the table, face mulish and expression locked on the empty bowl in front of him. Hotch stopped, and stared, his brain for a moment tripping over the scene and superimposing a navy polo top onto the boy at the table instead of the light grey jacket he was wearing.

It was Spencer. It was the Spencer of Rhosgobel days, from the wildly curled brown hair to the thick glasses that hung crookedly from a thin nose. The same somewhat stooped posture, the same thin face only slightly more filled in. The eyes that darted up to stare curiously at Hotch when he walked in were dark, dark brown. None of his father’s changeable hazel. His complexion darker, more focal. The differences were subtle, the similarities breathtaking.

And he wasn’t three anymore.

“Jack, this is my friend, Aaron. Aaron, this is my son, Jack.” Spencer gestured tiredly as he introduced them, swishing a juice carton in his other hand. “Mine… mine and Elle’s.”

Without a word, Jack scraped his spoon across the bottom of his bowl, collecting the gluggy milk remains. Spencer cleared his throat. “’Lo,” the boy mumbled, sinking into the chair until his chin was level with the table.

“I’m sorry, Jack is tired and cranky because Jack has spent twenty-three hours on a bus,” Spencer said, his voice an unfamiliar stern that Hotch wasn’t sure if he was surprised by or not. “Because Jack decided that the solution to his problems was to steal money from his mother and run away from them without telling anyone where he was going.”

“I told _you_ ,” Jack protested, shooting back upright and knocking the bowl. He dabbed at the spill quickly with his sleeve, Hotch wincing and stepping forward to mop it up with a tea towel, nudging his arm away. “Why don’t you count?”

“Because I’m not your custodial parent,” Spencer retorted. “Your mom is a police officer, Jack. What do you think she would have thought if she hadn’t realized you’d taken money and gotten on a bus? You would have _scared_ her, and me when she alerted me to your disappearance. Was that your intention?”

Jack’s eyes flicked from Hotch and back to Spencer, expression darkening. “You keep saying you don’t count because you don’t have custody of me,” he mumbled, cheeks reddening and setting the dark shadows under his eyes into stark contrast, “so why is that different when it comes to telling me off? If you’re not allowed to be my dad any other time, I don’t think it should change now…” He sank down again, this time to hide the tears.

“I think you should go to bed,” Spencer said into that painful silence, his voice sharp over the gulping sounds of badly withheld tears. “Take a glass of water with you. You’re in my room, bathroom is the second door.”

“Dad, I—”

“Goodnight.” The word snapped into the room. Jack slid from the chair, eyes wide, and slunk out of the room like Halcyon when she knew she’d gotten into something she shouldn’t. Shoulders hunched and head bowed. The door clicked shut behind him.

Hotch stepped closer to Spencer, carefully. Recognised the familiar shake of absolute exhaustion working through the other man, the sluggish droop to his eyes. “I think you should probably sleep as well,” he suggested gently. “When is Elle getting here?”

“Late tonight,” Spencer answered, his eyes slipping shut and leaning back against the counter. Hotch moved forward on impulse, drawn by some wordless need in the other man’s posture, and wrapped his arms around him, tugging him into a boneless embrace. Spencer stiffened for a moment before sagging into his grasp, head tucked on his shoulder and hands working into his shirt to hook over the waistband of his sweatpants. “I told her to sleep before driving… it’s sixteen hours from here to New Orleans. God, Jack, _why_ …”

“Then you have time to sleep too,” Hotch said firmly, and tugged him towards the couch. “Otherwise, you’ll end up saying something you’ll regret if tempers get high. Come on.”

“Stay with me?” Spencer asked, slumping into the couch and curling back tight against it. Hotch paused, eyes skittering up to the bedroom. “Just… please. I don’t want to push you away or keep pretending we’re not… starting something. Not today.”

Hotch nodded, throat tight around the _starting something_ , sitting on the floor with his head against Spencer’s chest, arm sprawled between them. Spencer nodded slowly, eyes heavy, fingers threading sleepily through his hair. “I thought…” Hotch said suddenly, shivering and feeling Spencer’s abdomen tense behind him. “… I thought your son was… I thought you’d lost him.”

Spencer huffed out a shocked breath. “Why would you think that?” he asked, curling closer around Hotch’s head and peering down at him. Hotch tilted his head back, his jaw aimed towards Spencer’s, not at all surprised or disappointed when they dipped together for a shy kiss. A beginning one. “I’ve never once implied I’d suffered the loss of a child. That… that would be something I would have told you…” He trailed off.

“The DVD auto-played,” Hotch explained, his voice low. “He was in the hospital, you were there and Elle and then… nothing. And his room is untouched, I just… assumed. You know that losing a child often results in the separation of the parents.”

Spencer was silent. “Viral exanthem rash,” he said finally. “He had a fever, some… other symptoms. He was fine, but they suspected meningococcal when the rash presented… she left. After that video was taken. That’s why there are no others of him, and why the room is empty. When he was discharged, they left. We were separated at that point, it’s part—well, not really why we fought, but it was a factor. That week made it permanent.”

Hotch frowned. “You didn’t have shared custody?” he queried, probably callously. “Even visitation? You must have had visitation with him, no matter what happened between you and Elle.”

The chest behind him shuddered. Spencer curled tighter. “Sole legal and parental rights to Elle,” he murmured, and Hotch felt his stomach drop because he _knew_ what that meant. Knew the only reasons a court would remove custody to a parent—that parent had to pose, in some way, a risk to the child. “Restricted visitation under supervision to me. I did not take advantage of that allotment. And things just… continued.”

“Spence…”

“I just really need to sleep, Aaron. Please. I—we can talk about it. Later.” He pressed closer, shivering slightly. “Please.”

“Okay,” Hotch murmured, and waited for the other man to fall asleep, his brain chugging over the past few hours. The day yawned in front of him. He needed to shower, get dressed, go to the apartment and finish sorting through his belongings to throw out what was unsalvageable before the builders moved in…

But as Spencer’s eyes closed, so did his, lulled by the soft rise and fall of the chest against his ear and the steady, drumming heartbeat.

 

* * *

 

Regretting the nap that had left him with a groggy, aching head and sore eyes, he staggered up, glanced down at the deeply sleeping Spencer twitching slightly at the movement nearby, and tiptoed out to the kitchen. Spencer was a light sleeper, Hotch had never been able to work around him without waking him up.

Jack sat there, eating toast and watching the doorway. “Hi,” the boy said, munching down. “Dad’s still asleep, so I made lunch. Want some?”

“Hello,” Hotch replied, taking a seat across the table from him. Jack pushed the plate over, offering him a triangle of thickly peanut-pasted toast. Hotch took one with a smile, eating in silence before quietly asking, “Feeling better?”

“Yes, much.” Jack nipped at his toast. “Thank you.”

_Polite kid,_ Hotch thought, studying him. All of Spencer’s reticence offset by Elle’s gung-ho cockiness. An interesting mix. “You going to talk about why you ran away?” he tried, hoping he wasn’t mis-stepping with a kid he had no right to pry about, but watching carefully for a reaction anyway.

He got one. Jack’s eyes narrowed, tucking his arms back in close. Hand snaking possessively over his cell. Hotch leaned over, glancing down at the laptop bag hooked around the chair leg, Jack’s foot propped against it. “No,” Jack mumbled, and shoved what was left of the toast away. Hotch pushed it back. “Why do you care? I don’t even know you.” He took another piece of toast absently, adding, “no offence,” quickly.

“You know, I met your dad when he was nine years old,” Hotch tried. Jack paused, and he could see a visible struggle on the boy’s face as he tried to keep from looking _too_ interested. “In a quarry.”

“A _quarry_?” Jack blurted out, all pretence of disinterest vanishing. “What was _Dad_ doing in a quarry?”

Hotch flicked at some crumbs on the table, feigning nonchalance with his eyes locked on the boy through his downward cast lashes. “Getting beat up, mostly,” he said, noting the twitch. The twinge of suspicion.

“Dad was bullied?” Jack asked. The chair squeaked under him as he wiggled. “But… he’s an FBI agent. With a _gun_. And you were there and you’re huge!”

Hotch blinked, looking down at himself. _Huge_? He decided to move beyond that disconcerting statement. “He didn’t have a gun when he was nine,” he teased gently. “And he wasn’t that much smaller than I was. There are always bigger kids with a grudge against people who are different.”

“Did you help him?” There was a wistful note in Jack’s voice, and Hotch’s heart twisted in his chest as he imagined Spencer if he hadn’t gone to the quarry that day… if they’d never met. Both of them, he and Spencer, waiting for a friend who’d never shown up.

Waiting for some kind of rescue that had never arrived.

“Yes,” Hotch replied, side-stepping the fact that he’d broken the bully’s nose until such a time as he’d discovered Spencer’s opinion on retributory violence—although he was pretty sure he knew Elle’s stance, and rather surprised that this particular bully still had kneecaps. “We made a fort. A hide-away, where we could go to hang out where they couldn’t find us, ever. Where nothing bad could find us. We called it Rhosgobel… cool name, huh?”

“Yeah.” The longing was plain now.

“Your dad named it. After a book series we loved—”

“Lord of the Rings.” Jack smiled. “I’ve read them… Dad gave them to me for Christmas years ago. That’s so awesome… you guys were really good friends. If I had a place like that…”

“You could.” Hotch flicked his gaze to the cell that hummed under the boy’s fingers, an ominous _bzzt_ that travelled up his arm to reflect misery from his eyes. Interesting. “Find a place to go when you need time away from everything. Leave anything painful behind, take a book, your homework… whatever you like doing.”

“I like computers,” Jack offered, his foot nudging the laptop bag. “I’ve been learning coding. It’s… not something Dad likes much, so I didn’t tell him about it.” His expression turned mulish. “He doesn’t like much that I like. Guess it’s why…”

“Why what?” Movement caught Hotch’s eye as Spencer hovered into view in the doorway, just out of the boy’s eye-line.

“He doesn’t really like me much,” Jack admitted, voice low. “He left me with Mom and never came back… I understand, though. I’m not much like him at all. He’s _brave_. And Mom gets sad a lot now and cries when she thinks I don’t see, so I thought if I came here… maybe Dad could make it stop without me having to tell Mom or Ethan…”

The look on Spencer’s face was untainted heartbreak. He slipped back, vanishing behind the wall, jerking his face away so Hotch couldn’t see him react.

“But if Dad can’t help…” Jack was finishing, tapping his phone unlocked with his thumb and frowning down at the screen. Hotch watched him delete whatever was on the other side without pausing to even read it, apparently. “… do you think you could? The way you stopped them picking on him? Please?”

Spencer’s shadow shifted by the door as he listened.

“I think you should talk to him first,” Hotch said quietly. “I think he’ll surprise you yet.”

Jack didn’t look like he believed him.

 

* * *

 

Elle made Hotch feel old. He suspected, judging by the dejected expression on Spencer’s face, that the other man felt very much the same way. Outwardly, she was the same sassy spitfire that had threatened to lay into Simon with her drink tray and shamelessly flirted with Ethan all those years ago. But her eyes were lined, her mouth too, and there was a cold cast to her face that said _I’ve been hurt_. The years showed clearly on her.

Jack shrunk back as she walked in, her posture exhausted where it wasn’t furious. She looked at him. Jack looked away. “How are you, Spencer?” she asked instead, turning to her ex-husband and hugging him. The hug was stiff and ended quickly.

“Fine, thanks,” Spencer mumbled in reply, ducking his head to brush his lips against her temple. There was a comfortable familiarity to the move that spoke of thousands of prior touches. “Your drive?”

Hotch winced away at the painful tension. “I might take Halcyon for a walk,” he announced, stepping out into the room. Elle glanced at him, and her smile shifted, turning real and delighted.

“It’s Hotchner himself,” she laughed, stepping up and hugging him. “Good god, look at you. FBI has been feeding you better than Spencer used to!” Hotch looked down at himself again, scowling. He was going to get a complex from this damn family.

“I never fed him,” Spencer said absently, handing Hal’s leash to him. “Would… Jack, do you mind going with Aaron while we talk? And Jack… please leave your cell-phone here, thank you.” Jack shrugged, dropping the phone onto the couch with a terrified kind of glance before following, the door snapping shut between them and the two people facing off awkwardly.

The walk was fine. Hal couldn’t exactly race along anymore, and Jack didn’t seem willing to rush back to his parents. Nor did he want to talk. It seemed as though their conversation this morning was as much as the boy was willing to open up, falling quieter and quieter as the day had grated on and brought this moment closer. Spencer hadn’t stopped watching him once, his sharp eyes missing nothing, and Hotch knew he wouldn’t have to be the go-between for what was really bothering the Reids’ son.

_The Reids_. That was a weird thought. Even ex-Reids. He shook it away, handing Jack Hal’s leash while he brought them ice cream and sat down at a park, waiting for the sun to dip lower before taking him back to the quiet apartment.

“It was really nice meeting you,” Jack offered glumly, as they waited for the elevator to take the panting Hal back upstairs, his fingers tickling her ears. “And Hal. It was _awesome_ to meet Hal. I wanted a dog, once. Ethan said I could have one if Mom said yes, and Mom said we couldn’t afford it, so…” He stopped talking, biting at his lip. Fingers digging at his jeans pocket.

“So?” Hotch pushed gently.

“I wrote to Dad and told him we couldn’t afford a dog and he sent money.” Jack shrugged, the only sign of his embarrassment the pink on his cheeks. “I felt real bad. I mean, it wasn’t a lie, we _couldn’t_ afford it, but I don’t think Mom wanted Dad to know that… so I hid the money and put it in Ethan’s wallet when he wasn’t looking. Don’t tell. You won’t tell, right? That was _years_ ago.”

Hotch couldn’t work out whether to laugh or hug the boy or what. “Didn’t your dad ever ask about your new dog?” he said instead, going for the diplomatic route.

Jack shot him a look that suggested he thought Hotch was quite silly. “Uh, no?” he asked, tilting his head and shoving his glasses up his nose with one finger. “Dad never asks about stuff. He writes letters sometimes, but they’re not really about anything so I don’t always write back. And he only ever talks to Mom when I’m in trouble. Which isn’t _too_ often.”

Hotch nodded, keeping his expression politely comforting. “Stay here,” he offered, handing the leash to the boy. “Hold her for a moment. I’ll just duck in and see if they’re…”

“Done arguing about me,” Jack finished glumly, slumping against the wall. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Done discussing,” Hotch corrected, and entered. The door clicked almost shut on a hushed apartment, the only sound the soft tick of a clock on the bookshelf. Hotch crept forward, nervous. Maybe Elle _had_ shot him. He wouldn’t put it past her.

They were in the kitchen. Hotch froze, realizing he was an intruder on something he’d never been a part of. Spencer and Elle were curled together, Elle against his chest, her head bowed. Spencer watched Hotch over those lank brown waves, his expression morose. Arms wrapped tightly around her, as though he could pause this moment and hold everything awful at bay with sheer willpower. And her shoulders shook, her chest heaving. The ticking was offset by the rocking kind of deep-set sobbing that was soft and rough all at once and tore on the way out. It was raw, painful, and he shouldn’t be seeing this. It was the kind of hurting you only showed those you could trust to stand by you, no matter what.

He’d never seen her this undone.

He slipped back out. “Are they finished?” Jack asked from his cross-legged spot on the floor. Hotch looked down at him and wondered how often his own mother had cried like that. How often Diana had cried. If they still did.

If your children ever stopped hurting you like that, or if it was just life.

“No,” he said sadly, sitting down next to him. “Not quite yet.”

 

* * *

 

Elle stayed the night, sleeping with Jack in Spencer’s bed while the two men slept in the living room together, Spencer on the couch and Hotch on a camp mattress. _Tick tick tick_ said the clock. Hotch listened to it, and the shift of Spencer’s breathing, knowing they both had to be up for work in the morning, up to see Elle and Jack off.

“You still love her,” he said suddenly into that ticking quiet. Sheets rustled.

“Yes.” The reply was soft, Spencer’s eyes catching the light. “Of course I do. It… it was never the kind of love you give up on. And it wasn’t like _us_. Ours was so violent, thrilling. Encompassing. When it was good it was all I’d ever wanted, and when it was bad I would have still burned for it. Elle and I… it was slow. And surprising. And… fragile.”

“You’ve thought a lot about this.” Hotch felt unsure about this conversation. Sure he wanted it. Unsure he could understand it. How many different types of love could there be? You were either in love, or you weren’t. Or you were… somewhere in between. Waiting in your room for a man who wasn’t coming back, or lying beside the ghost of that man as the drugs dragged him away.

“Course I have,” Spencer replied hoarsely. “Do you know, when you left and then Ethan… moved. He moved away. He and Elle argued about what they were and what they couldn’t be, and he left to find what he wanted instead of living for others. Which was good. But it was also so _lonely_. All it was was lonely. I hate pears, Aaron.” It was a weird tangent, but Spencer was full of weird tangents. Hotch waited him out. “I hate pears, and there was a woman around the corner from my apartment who sold them. And I noticed one day that she always, _always_ , asked her customers how they were… showed genuine interest. I started buying pears. Every week just… just so she would ask about my day. That’s where I was when it began. And then I bumped into Elle, or maybe she came looking for me, and she was… lonely too. So we were lonely together.”

He fell quiet for the longest time. Hotch waited and waited until he thought he might fall asleep, or burst with curiosity. “You slept together,” he said finally, and it didn’t bother him. Not really.

“Yes. Yes… and then she was pregnant and we didn’t know what to do. Or she did, and I didn’t think I should have a say. I was starting at the BAU. She was finally out of White Collar, working Major Crimes… we had our careers to think of. We made an appointment. Drove to the clinic. Parked up the road near a supermarket so protesters didn’t see our car… and we waited. And waited. Bought ice creams and ate them. Waited some more. Waited so long we missed the appointment, without saying a word about it, and then we drove home. And we continued not talking about it, until she came to my apartment, said we were having a son, and I asked her to move in.”

Hotch reached up, tracing his hand on the side of the couch until Spencer took his hand. They paused like that for a moment, both of their palms clammy with sweat and one of them trembling. They stayed like that until Spencer slipped from the couch and down onto the floor with him, pressing flush against him with his mouth against Hotch’s throat and his words humming deeply into his skin as he continued.

“I loved her, but I wasn’t _in_ love with her. Stupid distinction. Only really a distinction because I did fall in love with her… there’s something about someone holding your child, Aaron. Watching them hold your child, raising your child. It was slow and steady and one day I woke up and Jack was between us and she was asleep and… I don’t know. That feeling never went away, even when she did…” He huddled closer, fell silent. “We got married for Jack and then… it was for a little more than just Jack and then a little more and then she got hurt, because of my work, an unsub went after me and hurt her instead. Shot her and left her bleeding while our son screamed in his crib… and I didn’t leave. I stayed working. Because of people like Connors, people I needed to stop, and that was so much _more_. If I didn’t stop them, no one would and… Jack could get hurt one day. And he did. But not by them.”

It was the most Spencer had talked since they’d been reunited. It was open and shattered and raw and Hotch knew they were moving closer to something. Some moment when they would have to decide whether they were currently all they would ever be, or if there was something more they could one day aspire to reach for.

“When Jack was three, I was… held. By an unsub. For… just under three days.” Spencer said this calmly, despite his halting, stalling speech, and Hotch couldn’t breathe. Knew he was clinging harder, knew his arm was tightening around the other man, knew his face was frozen with the horror of everything he’d feared when he’d seen Spencer sitting in the FBI conference room. “He used drugs to subdue me. I thought I would die there, and then I did die there, and then… I came back. The team brought me back, but I took the drugs with me. And I used them. I used them and I quit them and I used them again in a vicious, relentless cycle that Elle was caught in the middle of.”

“She left you until you cleaned up…” Hotch had to talk, he had to say _something_.

“Yes. But she said if I could stay clean for at least a week, she’d let me see Jack. And I did. Or I told her I did. I was three days clean and she dropped him off at my apartment, and I’ve always been so good at hiding it.”

“Oh Jesus, fuck, Spencer. _Why_.”

Spencer curled closer. “I missed him. So much. And I knew I could stay clean while he was there… but I was sick. Not badly, but enough that after I put him to bed, I crashed. Hard. And I was focused on how crap _I_ felt, how hard that was for me, how _good_ I was doing… I didn’t notice he was sick. A slight fever that peaked quickly while he was in bed, alone, and I wasn’t there, I was _sleeping_. Sleeping while he burned from the inside out until he seized… and I found him on the bedroom floor in the morning. I don’t know how long he was like that. I just called nine-one-one, and then I called Elle, and then… I called rehab. And that was the last video I have of him, to remind me how much I could have lost. We fell apart completely that day, I didn’t know how to fix that, and I guess… it was better for him that I didn’t.”

Hotch loosened his arms, letting Spencer sprawl back, eyes open and staring at the ceiling. Hotch watched him, watched that brain tick over and over and over until it took every outcome and somehow turned it into _this is your fault._ “Febrile seizures are subtle,” he said finally, and Spencer ignored him. “They’re common, and easily missed.”

“Aaron, don’t…”

“Three year olds don’t think to call for their parents when they’re sick, not always.” Hotch kept pushing. “Not if it comes on fast. He wouldn’t have had time. You weren’t high, you weren’t drunk… you were asleep. Parents sleep. Parents sleep through their children being ill, loving parents. They sleep through illness, they sleep through nightmares, and they even sleep through someone coming in through the window and taking their child away. Are you saying the parents we see at work are somehow at fault because they didn’t have some innate knowledge that their child needed them? Or do you hold yourself to some higher standard?”

“Please, stop it.” Hotch could tell; Spencer wanted to loathe himself for this because it was easier than admitting that sometimes there was no changing the outcome. “Stop… lawyering me, Aaron. I didn’t tell you for some false sense of absolution. I told you so that you understand that I am an addict, I will always be an addict, and if it’s not the drugs, it’s the work. And that’s all I have to offer you. And Jack, and Elle, and perhaps you’d all be better off… away.”

“Nope.” Hotch was firm, his voice the same one he’d used in countless courtrooms. “I’m not accepting that. And I’m not going to fix you of that belief, because you’re not twenty anymore, Spencer. You’re not hurt and alone and desperate. You’ve… put yourself back together beyond all odds, and you’ll keep doing so. And I’ll be here, by your side, with you if you want that. But you don’t need me to carry you through this anymore, or pity you.”

Spencer rolled to look at him, his expression strange and soft. “Are you asking me out?” he asked, eyebrow raised. “In a really… wordy way.”

Hotch blinked. Was he?

“I guess?” he said, and swallowed back whatever else he’d been about to say as Spencer lurched forward to kiss him and almost cracked his head back against the couch. “Ow. Okay. Hi.”

“Yes,” muttered Spencer, eyes shut and shaking. “Finally. But…”

“No buts,” Hotch said, kissing him again. And again, one more time. Weary with the hour and the strain of the day, but giddy with this moment. “I’ve seen you at your worst, Spencer. This is not your worst, not even close, you’re just too determined to blame someone that you’ve convinced yourself it is. No one has given up on you yet. Not even Jack.”

Spencer smiled against his mouth, slow and nervous, like he was worried this could be taken away. Like he was worried it was some false start. Hotch was sure it wasn’t. “I’m thinking of maybe… cleaning his room up,” he said quietly. “Maybe?”

“Definitely.”


	50. Eucatastrophe - July, 2015

It smelled like paint, that was the problem. Yep. That was one hundred percent the reason why his apartment felt so…well. Not like his apartment. His stuff was in it—most of it, what had survived the soaking it had gotten when the ceiling had brought a torrent of water and ash crashing into his living room. His bedroom had survived untouched. His office had flooded, but whatever hadn’t been on floor level was fine. But even if he discounted the empty spaces where those missing things _should_ be, the apartment still felt wrong. Empty.

And it smelled like paint.

He hated it.

“Staying late again?” Prentiss had asked him, looking at him oddly as she’d made her way out of the office late one night. He’d shrugged. Made some excuse about paperwork. Bribed Spencer into staying and doing said paperwork with him, alone in the bullpen except for the cleaners and a few stray agents, all to avoid that echoing paint-smelling apartment and the _click click click_ of Halcyon’s claws on the bare floorboards they’d replaced the ruined carpet with.

And _Halcyon_. She wouldn’t stop looking for the man who was missing.

“She misses you,” Hotch had teased Spencer when the man had come to drop off some things Hotch had forgotten. Halcyon had howled, her trademark _wowoooowwoo_ , and thrown herself at Spencer with the reckless abandon of a dog ten years her junior. “Guess you’ll have to stay.”

Spencer had laughed, made some sly comment, and left with only a single cursory kiss. They were being careful this time.

As soon as he’d left, Halcyon had slumped by the front door, tucked her nose against it, and waited for him to come back. Hotch shook his head at her and pondered for a moment if he could do the same, before determining that he really _had_ to readjust to living alone.

“Right,” he told her, settling on his couch with a beer and a book. “Let’s do some readjusting.” Hal sighed, tail thumping despite her woeful expression.

It went beautifully, until:

**_Spencer Reid_ **

**_> You make my anoxic sediments wants to increase their redox potential ; ). S.R._ **

“What,” Hotch deadpanned, staring at his cell. After a long moment of staring, he gave up and googled it.

**_…Did you really just send me a pick-up line <_ **

**_> Yes. Did you like it? Have you been successfully ‘picked up’? S.R._ **

**_… No. Please never do that again. I’m so unnerved and confused and why are you even looking up pick-up lines <_ **

Putting his phone down, Hotch turned back to his book, utterly sure that he _didn’t_ want to know how Spencer had ended up with the idea of sending him terrible attempts at puns. _I will ignore it for at least ten minutes_ , he told himself firmly. _Or the next chapter. I will learn to enjoy my own company once more._

Hal huffed.

His phone hummed twice. He made it to the next page before peering over curiously. Just this once.

**_> This one is simpler_ **

**_> Did you know that chemists periodically do it on the table? _ **

He’d never admit laughing at that. Never.

**_I hate you an unbelievable amount right now <_ **

**_> No you don’t_ **

Something was off. Hotch narrowed his eyes at the text, inching lower into the cool sheets of his bed and putting the book aside. _Click click click_ went Hal’s claws as she wandered off to the kitchen on her usual nightly circuit.

**_Are you drinking? <_ **

**_> No why?_ **

**_Your grammar is a little lacking. And you’re not signing your texts. What are you doing? <_ **

**_> Googling pick-up lines, obviously_ **

**_> I’m a little bored_ **

Hotch sighed. It was like having vivid flashbacks to being twenty-one again, when Spencer had discovered a science pun website and hidden the results on post-its around the entire apartment. There would be no living with him while he was on another—

**_> I’m also very very distracted_ **

**_By what? <_ **

**_> I was looking for puns. And I found those. And then I sent you those. And then I started thinking about what would happen if they were effective._ **

**_> …and now I am distracted. And aroused. And really very alone. Why aren’t you here. You’ve been here for weeks. It’s very inconvenient that you’re not here right now._ **

The text was completely unexpected. Hotch read it three times and coughed, the room suddenly very warm. Was Spencer… insinuating something? Or was Hotch reading into it a little too much?

_Bzzt_.

**_> Very. Very. Alone._ **

“I think you’re insinuating something,” Hotch told the phone with mock sternness, and kicked the sheet from his legs. Far too warm in here. “I’m not doing this. I am not playing along with this.” It was beginning to dawn on him that his self-control was less than it should be.

**_I’m concerned that you appear to have some kind of kink for chemistry puns. Very, very concerned. And I refuse to indulge you. <_ **

**_> The whole time I was on that date, weeks ago, I was thinking about you_ **

**_Not indulging you. We’re not teenagers. We’re not doing this. <_ **

**_> Come over then._ **

**_> No pun intended._ **

**_> If you’d kissed me that night, I would have taken you to bed. I should have taken you to bed anyway. I know you wanted me to. I know you were hard just from watching me shave._ **

“Where the _fuck_ did this come from,” Hotch breathed, bringing his legs up so he could pretend he wasn’t aroused right now. “Jesus.” He could go over there. He’d only had a few mouthfuls of his beer. And he really, really wanted to.

But he also wanted… something other than what he knew they were goading each other to. Because if he had Spencer in front of him right now, saying the things he was saying… it would be fast, hungry, and supremely satisfying, but it wouldn’t be tender. It wouldn’t have the same slow hope of their first time at Rhosgobel or the affection of the first time he’d let Spencer have him.

And, fuck, he was allowed to want something _more_ for what he knew would be another first for them.

**_Not my fault. You were shirtless and flushed. It was a very handsome look on you <_ **

**_> I’m shirtless and flushed right now, too. Come over._ **

**_You’re also thinking entirely with your dick. I can tell. You’re not subtle when you’re looking to get laid. <_ **

**_> Wasn’t aiming for subtle. What about this is subtle? Was I being subtle? I can be less subtle. Aaron, come over because I’m using the image of you with a hard-on as a masturbatory aid and I would very much rather you were here to appreciate that._ **

Hotch hissed, his leg sliding down with a _thump_ on the mattress and a creak of protesting bedsprings at the sudden movement, his free hand snapping down to palm at his cock through his silky boxers, already aching. _Oh fuck, oh fuck_ , he thought, other hand wrapped tight around the phone. _You sonofa—_

**_> It just occurred to me that you’ve probably joined me by this point. This was an unexpectedly titillating realization. S.R._ **

**_I have. <_ **

**_I’m coming over <_ **

**_Can I stay the night? <_ **

**_> Just try to leave._ **

It was a point of pride to Hotch that he did have _some_ self-control remaining. Although, driving the entire way to Spencer’s apartment half-hard, or at least not soft, wasn’t as much fun as he’d have hoped.

 

* * *

 

Spencer swung open the door and looked guilty, just as shirtless as advertised, as well as both freshly showered and in clean sweatpants. Hotch swept his gaze up and down him openly, and then smirked.

“I’ll file for future reference that ‘unexpectedly titillating’ in Spencer talk actually means ‘accidentally came’,” he teased, and Spencer—interestingly—managed to turn even redder. Hotch stepped in, a second jibe ready, but as soon as the door clicked shut, Spencer was on him. Back against the door with Spencer’s hips tilted away from him and his tongue currently on a quest to gain entry into his mouth, even just the sweep of the other man’s hands up his side was enough to have him hard again.

“I thought you finished,” Hotch managed when they came for air.

“I did,” Spencer replied, finding Hotch’s throat and nipping his way down it, sending a surge of cold-hot want down his spine. “You didn’t. I know you didn’t. You get astonishingly sappy once you’ve climaxed, you always have, and I haven’t received one text implying sappiness yet.”

“Hey,” Hotch protested, and then coughed out a shocked groan as Spencer’s fingers slipped into his jeans where they hung from his hips and trailed down the dip of his pelvic bone until they were skimming hot skin. “Spence, wait—you know you’ve been working me up for over an hour, I’m not—”

“Going to last,” Spencer hummed into his neck, using both hands to very smoothly unzip and slide Hotch’s jeans down his hips enough to reach his dick, and using both hands in a wicked shift of fingers and palms and warm, firm grips— “I know. I’m actually relying on that. Now _come_.” Hotch wasn’t hugely used to being given _that_ as a command, but it turned out his brain seemed to enjoy the notion.

He came. In a hot, messy burst across the other man’s hands, and he hissed in part relief/part dismay at the sight, slumping back bonelessly against the wall nonetheless. Spencer boxed him in with his body, crowding him back so they were still together, keeping his hands slightly out of the way.

“You’re amazing,” Hotch eventually murmured, bringing his mouth down to kiss that tumbled brown hair, feeling Spencer shake against him as he chuckled. “That wasn’t exactly the romantic entanglement I was hoping for, but still, very… inventive.”

“Sappy,” Spencer mumbled into his shirtfront, before straightening and wiggling upright so they were at eye-height. “Good, you’re all bonding chemically. I have an admission.” Of course he did. Hotch leaned back to wait for it. “A) I deliberately made you finish then because your refractory period is better than mine and I’m planning on letting you fuck me later—”

Oh.

Hotch could get behind logic like that.

“—B) I cancelled my date that night about an hour in because I _could_ only think about you.”

“But you were out for _hours_?” Hotch protested, levering himself upright as Spencer slid away to the sink to wash his hands. A glance down confirmed that his boxers and the hem of his shirt hadn’t quite escaped the messy end, and he sighed and began to strip them off. “Do you have something I can wear?”

“I parked downstairs and planned to listen to an audio-book until a socially acceptable hour to come home without my date seeming like a failure, after how much you stressed you’d like me to go.” Spencer flicked water from his hands, turning and grinning with a saucy kind of interest as Hotch shucked his pants off completely to join his shirt, balling both in his hands to quickly tidy before throwing into the hamper. “But I fell asleep. And no, no I don’t. So you’ll have to go naked. Shame.”

“Pervert,” Hotch complained, frowning at him without meaning it. “And that is seriously the saddest, most Spencer thing… okay, second most Spencer thing ever.”

Spencer winked and began shedding his own clothes. “Here, I’ll make you feel more at home,” he tried, aiming for casual and tripping over his own pants leg. Hotch just folded his arms and cocked an eyebrow, still completely able to glare, even when naked. “Also, what’s the first?” Unfolding his arms quickly, Hotch was still only just able to get his hands out in time to catch Spencer as he pretty much threw himself at Hotch with abandon, sending them both tumbling back onto the couch with a shared mix of elbows flailing and yelps mixed with giggles. No one could make falling backwards graceful without clothes on, _no one_.

Laying panting on his back on the couch with Spencer politely crushing him, Hotch rolled his eyes outwardly and inwardly wondered how much they’d missed in the years they’d wasted. He tamped that thought down quickly, because he suspected those missed years were actually integral in some ways he just didn’t fully know yet. “Masturbatory aids, Spence, really?” he said. “Where did you learn to sext?”

“Googled it,” Spencer said indignantly over Hotch’s helpless laughter at his facial expression. “There was actually a really interesting paper published about—”

“Were you reading a psychological paper while _sexting_ me?” Hotch choked out, almost tipping him off the couch accidentally. “’Oh my god, you were. You were getting off to _Psychology Today_. You kinky little _shit_.”

Spencer’s mouth snapped shut and he refused to say another word, even when Hotch finally managed to stop laughing.

 

* * *

 

They made a nest on the living room floor, like they really were twelve again, constructed from couch cushions and blankets and the camp mattress, and cuddled in the centre of the mess with Hotch playing big spoon and Spencer playing wriggly-over-excited spoon. They finally watched Lord of the Rings, beyond the first one.

They made it most of the way through the first before Hotch distracted himself.

“We’re not stopping _Lord of the Rings_ to have sex,” Spencer protested, ignoring Hotch’s mouth on his shoulder blade and spine as he kissed his way along the smooth, warm skin. “Don’t you even care how sad it would make twelve-year-old us if they knew we’d stopped watching _Lord of the Rings_ , in _movie form_ , just to have sex?”

“I think twelve-year-old me would be pretty horrified by the concept of sex with his best friend, so let’s not tell him that it’s something we indulge in regularly, okay?” Hotch joked, before thinking further about what he was saying. “On second thoughts, why are we flaunting our sex lives to our child selves? That’s weird and creepy and if we’re talking to them, why is _that_ what you think would possibly come up over, I don’t know, telling them that virtual reality gaming will one day be a thing or that one day you’ll be able to get ice cream delivered to your door.”

“You’re still trying to arouse me,” Spencer pointed out, which wasn’t entirely right because Hotch had paused. Mostly. Still with one hand rubbing gentle circles into the other man’s bare thigh and on the screen, Rivendell was still being everything he’d thought it would be. “You’d really only tell your past self about ice cream deliveries?”

Hotch was silent. Thoughtful for a moment. Before curling forward and resting his chin on Spencer’s shoulder, snuggling close. “No,” he said quietly, his voice thick with something that might have been emotion, but he’d never admit to it. “I’d tell him that… one day he’s going to get a letter that’s going to confuse and hurt him. I’d tell him that there’s more going on than he could possibly know… and I’d tell him that, no matter what, he needs to say yes to that letter.”

Spencer turned to look at him. “I never blamed you for Connors,” he murmured, eyes intent. “You were sixteen. It was no one’s fault but Connors himself.”

“I know.” Hotch kissed him, awkwardly, their mouths slipping away from the strange angle. “What would you tell yourself?” He studied Spencer’s profile in the flickering light of the TV, the sheets tangled around their ankles and throwing their intertwined bodies into stark contrast against each other. All lines and curves and hollows, familiar and different. There was a scar on Spencer’s knee that was horrific and marred by neat surgical scars. Another on his neck, another on his bicep. More scattered like freckles on the inner curve of his arm.

Spencer rolled around completely to answer, hooking his leg over Hotch’s hip and kissing him properly. “I’d tell him not to give up,” he finally answered, glancing at the screen. “Because it’s going to get so hard one day that he’s going to think about it… possibly plan it.” His eyes slid shut, and Hotch closed his too because he knew this was going to hurt. “Possibly almost complete it. And going through with it would be a mistake… because things got so much better. And you never let me fall completely.”

“The night we left on our road-trip…” Hotch knew it. He didn’t really need confirmation.

He didn’t really need the nod he received.

“Oh!” Spencer bolted upright, vanishing from the room in a rustle of sheets and a flicker of white skin. Hotch lay on his back and waited for him to return, mind oddly calm. “I did this for you.” The man reappeared, holding out a thick, _thick_ bundle of paper to him. “It’s not really the same, and some of them might be _slightly_ different, but… I think they’re accurate. And I know yours were destroyed in the fire…” Hotch took them, sitting upright to study the handwriting in the blue light from the screen. It was Spencer’s handwriting from now.

It wasn’t his voice.

_Dear Aaron, I know it’s only been a few days since I left, but I didn’t want to wait! This is so weird. Not the actual writing, that’s not weird, I write all the time, but writing TO someone is new and exciting and I can’t believe you’re actually going to read this_

“Spence,” he breathed, flipping through them. “You… rewrote them. _All_ of them.”

Spencer nodded. “Even the… hard ones,” he said, as Hotch found the ones from when they were teenagers. “They’re all a part of who we are… I wanted you to keep that. I know our book survived, so it only made sense that you’d need the other half of the story.”

Hotch put them aside with infinite care, and drew Spencer down onto his lap, movie forgotten, kissing him deeply. “We have to finish that story one day,” he said absently, moving his mouth’s attentions to Spencer’s jawline.

“When the time is right, we will,” Spencer promised, arching in his hands with a soft kind of pleasure.

They made it halfway through the second movie before, wordlessly, Hotch found himself working the other man apart from the inside out, swaying his hips slowly forward into him in a rhythm that was timeless and poised on the brink. They kept stopping. Starting. It took them three tries for Spencer to even tip from ‘interested’ to ‘actually aroused’, and both of them grumbled about their age slowing them up, despite the fact it was probably more just exhaustion and their earlier activities. Hotch belted his knee on the coffee table trying to roll Spencer over without sliding out. There were three leg cramps between the two of them and Spencer accidentally sneezed on Hotch’s shoulder.

Frodo and Sam were almost to Mt Doom before Hotch managed to reach that brink and shiver into his second climax of the night, one that was weak and stuttering and somehow _more_ than the first. Spencer whined and wiggled back into it, needy and always wanting at this point, and it took another four minutes of fumbling and panting and wet, desperate kissing for him to follow.

They made a mess, but they’d been doing that all their lives. The mess wasn’t what mattered. What mattered was that it was real and human and Hotch, mindful of the _sappy_ comment, managed to bite this back in the sedate afterglow that followed the hurried change of sheets and a shared, cold shower to watch away the various forms of sticky.

“Aaron?” Spencer murmured, half-asleep and gorgeously pliable. Hotch _hmm_ ed a yes. “I love you. In… in so many ways.”

“Now who’s sappy,” Hotch grumbled, splaying a hand against the other man’s heart and edging him closer. “But I know. And I love you too. Have since I was ten.”

“Since Rhosgobel,” Spencer slurred, more asleep than not now, and then he said very little at all.

Hotch waited until he was sure the other man was completely asleep. “Before that,” he said softly, and thought of a boy in a quarry wiping blood from his face. _We’re not friends_ , he’d snapped, and it was probably the most wrong he’d ever been.

If Hotch could go back, maybe that’s what he’d tell him.

_You will be._


	51. This Time for Sure

The adults were all drinking and messing about in the living room, and it was entirely too _loud_ for Jack’s liking. It wasn’t hard to slip away. Only Mom saw him sneaking out, and she wouldn’t dob him in. Ethan might, but he was busy trying to teach Dad a new card-trick and didn’t see.

Jack paused in the doorway, glancing back. It was so _strange_ seeing Dad and Mom together, and Ethan, too. Confusing, almost. They sat next to each other and Mom kissed Dad when they walked in, even though Jack was _sure_ Dad was Aaron’s boyfriend now and sometimes Mom slept in Ethan’s bed when she thought Jack was asleep and didn’t know.

Adults were far too confusing. He considered that maybe they’d make more sense when he was older.

“Alright, Jack?” Aaron asked, stepping out of Dad’s room and closing the door behind him. “You look pensive.”

“Just going to go play with my laptop for a bit,” Jack admitted, grinning sheepishly. He didn’t think Aaron would tell him off. Aaron _never_ scolded, not really. Only once, and not Jack, when they’d come to do a talk at Jack’s school about how isolating people could cause a lot of trouble and Chandler had stuck his hand up and asked them if they were gay since he’d seen them hug before school. Aaron had scolded, Dad hadn’t said anything.

Jack had said yes. He wasn’t ashamed, not ever.

And the bullying _had_ stopped. For almost a year now. No one wanted to pick on the kid with FBI agents in his family, even if he did have a gay dad. Mom being there in her uniform too probably hadn’t hurt.

“Okay,” Aaron said, letting him go. Jack liked that about Aaron. He never pushed, not ever. And sometimes when Jack and his dad were all weird together, especially when they were first trying to figure things out, Aaron always _helped_ just by being there. “You want company?”

Jack shook his head _no_. He might not be being bullied, but he knew he wasn’t exactly what people… well, wanted in a friend. That was an upsetting thought, so he walked away quickly before Aaron saw he’d distressed himself. And he did what Dad had taught him to do, mixed in a little with Aaron’s advice. _Find a quiet place, all of your own, and focus on something else for a while. We just get too much going on in our heads sometimes, Jack. It’s okay to take a step back to think._ It wasn’t exactly like he could find a quiet place, not in an apartment in the middle of DC when he visited Dad, and not really at home in New Orleans either…

But he could make a place that he could take with him.

The bedroom still smelled a little bit like paint, and Jack trailed his fingers against the wall automatically as he slipped in and closed the door. There was a gap between the bed’s headboard and the wall where he’d thrown a bunch of pillows, just big enough for him to stretch out in with his—

“Oh, hello.” A boy leapt up, looking guilty. A book he’d been reading slipped from his hands and sprawled open next to Jack’s bookshelf. Jack flicked back through the rapid-pace introductions he’d been given as Dad’s friends had arrived for dinner. “Sorry, I didn’t think… you’re Jack, yeah? This must be your room while you’re here… I sleep here sometimes, when I stay over, and uh, I’m rambling, sorry…”

Henry. His name was Henry.

“Hi, yeah,” Jack mumbled, face burning red. He didn’t know what to say. _Get out of my room_ seemed a little rough since it was probably more often Henry’s than it was Jack’s and maybe Dad liked Henry more and would be mad if…

“Do you… mind?” Henry asked, shifting back against the bookcase. “I mean, if I stay here. They’re very loud out there and I kinda just want to read… I won’t bother you, I’ll be real quiet. Can I stay?”

Jack thought about that for a second before nodding firmly and diving into his space, mouth thick and head buzzing with worry. What should he _say_? Should he say anything? Apparently not, because as he curled back against the pillows, he could hear quiet pages turning.

“Why are you in there?” said Henry suddenly, his voice muffled by the sheet Jack had pulled over the mini-fort thing he’d made. “Isn’t it dark?”

“I have my laptop,” Jack said, fiddling with the keys as he powered it on, casting the dark space with a blue glow. It seemed easier to talk now he couldn’t see the other boy’s face. “And I dunno, it’s just… nice in here. Like a fort.”

“Uncle Spence makes forts with me sometimes,” Henry replied after a moment, and Jack fought back another kick of _not fair_. It was _fine_ to be jealous, but it wasn’t Henry’s fault and he shouldn’t take it out on him. “You know, we could probably make it bigger. I mean, not _that_ bit because obviously that bit is special… but that could be like. The centre of a fort the size of the whole _room_.”

Jack hmmed. He popped his head out from under the sheet and looked around. “What would we do with a fort that big?” he asked, a little suspicious of the excited look on Henry’s face, his blue eyes wide with delight. There had to be a catch.

“Make up stuff?” Henry offered. “I can draw. I make comic books sometimes. And making up stuff is way easier in a blanket fort, Uncle Spence always says that. We could even _name_ it. I always name my forts, but I’ve never made one with someone like you before.”

“Someone like me?” Jack asked, already mentally calculating load bearing structures in his room.

Henry inched forward, his smile real and happy. “You know, like someone my age, not old like your dad,” he said. “Like a friend.”

Jack blinked. “Are we friends?” he asked cautiously. Was it that simple?

It didn’t seem that simple.

“Sure,” Henry replied, and held out his hand. “Come on. I’ll prove it.” After a moment, Jack took it.

Maybe this time, it would be.


	52. Round-Robin Again

There was a boy who’d been walking forever and ever and ever to get where he’d been going, for so long that he thought that maybe his feet would fall off and just keep walking without him. And he had a dog. Her name was Halcyon and she was grey and big and when she howled everything bad that would hurt the boy would run away. And he was fit and healthy and everyone said he was, and that was because he walked a lot, but they never asked where he was going. This was good because he didn’t really know where he was going. Just that he was looking for something. And Halcyon was coming too.

But one day he started walking like usual with Halcyon and instead of the nothing that was always at the side of the road he found another boy—BY J. E. Reid

_“Hello” said the other boy and laughed because the dog was SO big and SO howly but also kind of silly looking. He liked animals a lot. “whats your name?”_

_“I’m Jack” said the first boy and pointed to his dog. “This is Halcyon. She’s mine”_

_The second boy looked at them and he could tell they were interesting and fun. More interesting than sittig by the side of the road. So he said “Im Henry” and started walking with them. “Can I come too?”_

_“We don’t know where we are going” said Jack. “Why would you come somewhere you dont know?”_

_And Henry thought and thought and thought until he thought he had the answer. “Well, when you’re going somewhere you don’t know, getting lost is half the fun!”—HENRY L._

Our first story written on this day of summer 2016 by Henry LaMontagne aged 9 and Jackson Reid, aged 10

And we decree ( _both of us!_ ) that there will be many more made ( _in blanket forts only though because that’s where the MAGIC is, Jack)_ and kept in a secret secret place named Rhosgobel, which is anywhere we say it can be so long as it is SECRET

I, Jack, promise to uphold this secret

_~~And I do too~~ _ _And I Henry promise too as well_

ALWAYS

**Author's Note:**

> **Edited November, 2017.**


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